


we’ll be alright

by troubadour



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Alternate Season/Series 10, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Domestic Bliss, Family Bonding, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Mickey Gets A Cat, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21999202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadour/pseuds/troubadour
Summary: In which Paula isn’t around, Ian and Mickey communicate, and their happily ever after starts the second Mickey comes in through the window.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 66
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello! a few things before we get started:  
1\. this is the first fic i’ve posted in years so i’m a bit nervous. however, i’m really excited to get back into it!  
2\. special thanks to mar for inspiring me to write and helping me out a bunch. you are The Best  
3\. thank you to all my followers on twitter (i’m over at @noelroeim) for giving me cute ideas and encouraging me when i post little snippets i adore you all so much!!  
4\. i hope you all enjoy this! i’m hoping to update this fairly regularly. welcome to the season 10 we deserve

If you would have told Mickey this morning that he’d be out of prison and climbing up the side of the Gallagher house, he would have called you a fucking dumbass. Or, he’d have said, _“Ay, _I really got away with being pushed out of the joint in a fucking toxic waste bin?”

But here he is. _Climbing, _after jumping out of a fucking bus, getting driven home by his all too chipper P.O. and getting the shit scared out of him by a bunch of Mexicans out front. He doesn’t know who the hell they are, but he sure as fuck isn’t gonna wait to see if they start shooting at him.

Mickey almost slips when he finally reaches Ian’s room, but he braces both of his arms on the window’s ledge and then punches through as hard as he can. He’s immediately hit in the face with tiny shards of glass and the stupid fucking tan blinds, so he grunts and lets out a harsh “_shit_” while he pushes himself all the way inside.

“God_dammit_,” he hisses, but finally lets his body relax when he feels the bed underneath him.

“What are you doing here?” Ian asks breathlessly, and Mickey can barely even hear him over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Long story,” he starts, still panting. He takes a second to drag his eyes over Ian’s figure. He’s shirtless, only wearing his khaki pants with a nerdy little belt, and _Jesus Christ_ does he fucking look good. They’ve only been separated for a few weeks, but Mickey feels like he might die if he doesn’t touch him within the next few seconds. “Ends in compassionate release.”

Ian looks like he wants to say a million different things. His mouth opens and closes until he blurts out, “Why’d you come in through the window?”

“Bunch of fucking Mexicans out front!” Mickey snaps, pushing himself off the bed with a wheeze. His body feels like _shit _after everything that just happened to him, his forehead and somewhere near his eye are still burning like a motherfucker, but he ignores it to point a question at his boyfriend. “What’s that about, anyway? Should I be worried?”

“No, but it’s _also_ a long story,” Ian echoes Mickey’s words. “Ends in all-you-can-eat tamales.”

Mickey says nothing after that, just lets his face break out into the smile that’s been threatening to take over his face ever since he laid eyes on Ian. He lets out a soft laugh through his panting, then slowly drags his eyes back over Ian’s body, pushing his tongue out into his cheek. _Fuck_, he looks good.

Ian, as if reading his mind, breaks the tense silence. “Come here.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Mickey’s closing the gap between them and shivering when their already open mouths meet, one of Ian’s hands coming up to grip tightly at his neck. The kiss doesn’t turn into something heated and desperate; it’s a sweet, gentle pressure that makes Mickey feel like he’s finally _home_. They sway a little bit, like absolute fucking goofs, and Ian’s other arm comes up to wrap around him tightly.

Yeah, Mickey thinks, this is fucking _home_.

The embarrassing lovey-dovey thoughts don’t last long, because then Ian’s moving and the scrape on his forehead gets nicked somehow and _fuck_ it stings. He hisses into the kiss and pulls back immediately.

“_Fuck_—sorry. My fucking,” he waves his hand vaguely over the area where it’s burning and then gently touches his fingertips to the scrape, quickly pulling away to see if it’s still bleeding. There’s only a faint crimson streak, but he thought it had stopped in Larry’s car.

Ian looks like he’s seeing Mickey’s injuries for the first time. His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, forehead creasing with worry. “Did you do that on the window?”

Mickey can’t help but laugh to himself at the fact that Ian’s a dumbass and was so distracted by the commotion he completely missed his fucked up face. He shoves at Ian lightly, nodding to his bedside drawer. “Nah, man. Another long story. You got a fuckin’ band-aid or something? Shit hurts.”

Ian rolls his eyes and nods towards the door. “Yeah, _no_. Go to the bathroom, I’ll be right behind you. I’ll make sure to clean out any debris and you can tell me what happened while I fix you up.”

“Yeah, alright, drama queen,” Mickey mutters under his breath, walking off into the bathroom. He puts the toilet lid down and sits on top of it, shrugging off his vest and throwing his long-sleeve carelessly to the floor, leaving him in his black tank top. It’s only then, when he’s waiting for Ian, that he realizes how fucking trippy this is.

He hasn’t been in this house in _years_, but it still looks the same: gross old toothbrushes littered around the sink, a mess of shampoo and soaps and lotions above and beside the toilet. He didn’t really look around in Ian’s room, but nothing looked out of place when he peered in from the window. It’s been so fucking long since he was here. Mickey gnaws at his bottom lip and tries not to think about how fucked up everything got after Sammi.

Thankfully, Ian walks in, and his panicked thoughts leave his head as quickly as they came. Ian’s changed into a white tank top and sweats, and he’s holding a tiny red first aid kit.

Mickey snorts. “Look at you,” he says. “Smartass EMT.”

Ian just beams down beautifully at him, making Mickey’s stomach jump. He takes out a thin cloth from his kit and presses it gently to Mickey’s forehead. “Sorry,” he says, seconds before Mickey grunts audibly from the applied pressure. “Sorry. It start bleeding again when you came in through the window?”

Mickey stops grinding his teeth for a second to answer. “Yeah, think so.”

“Okay, so tell me what happened.”

Mickey looks up at Ian and then back down at his jeans. “I was on a bus, heading here to see you. Ten minutes in, this car starts chasin’ the fuckin’ bus. So my dumbass thinks it’s the cartel, and I book it to the front and tell the driver to open the goddamn door. Jumped out, ran my ass off until I was hidden in some back roads, then the car pulls up.” Ian’s hand tenses on his forehead and Mickey hisses. “Ay, would you calm _down_? It turned out okay. I would have led with ‘yeah, so the cartel found me’ if it was bad news. Anyway, this old white dude comes out, says—get this—_holy moly. _Who the fuck says that?”

“Old white dudes.”

“Fair point, I guess. So then I ask him who the hell he is ‘cause he knows my name. Said, ‘_hey, Mr. Milkovich!_’ all happy and dandy. Turns out he’s my fuckin’ P.O.”

Ian dabs at his forehead and makes a pleased little noise then presses down on the cut closer to his eye. “Sorry.”

“_Fuck_.”

“Said sorry.”

“Still hurt,” Mickey grumbles. He looks back up at Ian, who’s smiling at him so warmly that it makes Mickey’s insides feel all mushy again. _Jesus_. “Who’s your P.O.?”

“Larry Seaver.”

“No shit? That’s my guy too.”

Ian chuckles then dabs at his other cut. He makes the same pleased noise as last time and reaches back to throw the cloth in the trash. “He’s nice. Got me a job at this diner. It’s across town, but Lip lets me use his car. Coworkers are nice. Pays good, too.”

“Is that right? Which one?”

“Some new one; has this whole fifties aesthetic going on with a jukebox and everything. Called _Frenchies_.”

Mickey hums, smiling at the image his brain conjures up of Ian in some oldies uniform. “Guess I’ll check it out soon. We done here?”

Ian smacks his shoulder when he tries to get up from the toilet. “_No_, I gotta clean it. I was just stopping the blood. Wasn’t much, but it was still something.”

Mickey resists the urge to sigh. “Alright. Do your EMT shit, you’re the expert.”

It takes a few minutes, but it doesn’t hurt like the first part. Ian cleans the scrapes with a wet, thicker cloth, then puts a light layer of antibiotic ointment on them. “There. Good as new.”

Mickey pulls Ian down by his tank top’s strap and kisses him, smiling into it. When he pulls away, Ian’s eyes are shining so bright that it makes him plant another one on him. “Thanks.”

Ian leans down and kisses his head. “Hey, you hungry? I wasn’t kidding about the all-you-can-eat tamales.”

They’re in and out of the kitchen, coming back upstairs with a few tamales each. They settle side by side on Ian’s tiny ass bed, eating in silence for a few minutes until Mickey can’t take his thoughts any longer. “It’s weird as fuck,” he says, then swallows his mouthful. “Being back here again.”

Ian’s eyes soften when Mickey looks over at him. “I bet it is. You alright?”

Mickey nods, taking another bite. He takes his time chewing and swallowing, trying to organize his thoughts. “Just… yeah, _weird_. It was so fucked up, the whole—you know. _Everything_. Swear to you when I looked out the kitchen, by the front door, that whole shit started to replay in my head.”

“You gotta be more specific, Mick.” Ian tries to joke, but it falls flat. He sets his last tamale down on the nightstand and turns his body to face Mickey. Mickey sighs softly when Ian’s hand rests on his thigh. “Was it the time I came running down there thinking someone was gonna get me then almost hit Debbie with the fucking baseball bat? Or the whole military police thing? Or what about the time I broke up with you?”

Mickey lets out a harsh breath, a lump forming quickly in his throat. They didn’t talk about all this shit in the joint. When Mickey first showed up, told him about how he rolled on a cartel, they fucked and kissed and laughed nonstop for weeks, maybe months. Then it turned into the constant fighting, Ian’s fucking floss, and stupid jabs when Mickey was just trying to get his pen’s ink to work again. When that phase blew over, Ian was gone. They didn’t talk about it. Mickey _wanted_ to, and sometimes he could see Ian’s nervous glances at him like he wanted to say something, too. But neither of them quite got there.

When Mickey doesn’t say anything, Ian keeps going. “Mick, we’ve done stupid shit. Kinda feels wrong of me to say that since, you know, a lot of the stupid shit was my fault. But this time’s different. You know why?”

Mickey doesn’t risk talking, doesn’t want his voice to crack, so he looks up into Ian’s eyes and raises his eyebrows in question.

“We’ll talk through things. We know what not to do. I’m stable, you’re _free_. We’ve built back our trust and—and I’m not gonna lose you again. I’ve lost you too many fucking times, Mick.” Ian lets out a weird and strangled watery laugh, then quickly wipes at his eyes with his hands. “Shit, I tried so hard not to cry.”

Mickey laughs at that, a few warm tears slipping out when he shuts his eyes tightly. “Oh, _fuck_ you. You made ‘em come out.” He doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he smiles when he feels Ian’s big hands settle on his cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Hey. Hey, you.”

Mickey’s eyes are still closed, but he rolls them.

“Mick, look at me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Mickey slowly opens his eyes and blinks away the wetness still clinging to his eyelashes for dear life. “What?”

“I love you. We’ll be alright.”

* * *

Ian’s in the shower when Mickey gets the text from Larry.

> _Good morning, Mr. Milkovich! I’ve got a job for you: Old Army at the mall. It’s a security position, I figured that would work since I read your employment history. You start today, from noon to six. _

Mickey’s kind of impressed that the dude found something for him so quickly. Old Army must be pretty fucking desperate if they’re gonna hire someone who went down for attempted murder and is possibly being hunted down by the fucking _Calderon __cartel_. But then again, he _would_ be the perfect person to scare the shit out of people who come in to steal their ugly ass clothes.

He quickly fires off a text back.

> _yeah sure i'll be there_

He’s got nothing better to do, and he sure as shit isn’t gonna find a better job on his own.

“Hey.”

Mickey jumps a little, turns around right in time to catch the bag Sandy tosses carelessly at him. “Jesus Christ. Warn a person.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome by the way.” Sandy makes herself right at home, lounging on their unmade bed. She looks a little different than the last time Mickey saw her—her hair’s longer and she’s got a new piercing. “This place is a shithole.”

Mickey snorts, reaching into the bag to take out a pair of shoes peeking out from the top. “This everything?”

“As much as I could find.”

He pulls out one of his shitty bongs and resists the urge to roll his eyes at its condition. Fuckin’ duct tape. “Hey,” he starts, pulling his eyes away from it to look at her. “Anybody, uh… kind of, _brown _come around the house looking for me?”

“No?”

“Good,” He answers, continuing to pull from the bag. It’s mostly his clothes now, but he can see a bunch of unnecessary shit—lighters, crumbled up papers from his bedroom, pens. “How is everyone, anyway?”

Sandy lets out a breathy laugh. “Same. Your brothers are idiots. At least once a week one of ‘em gets drunk and crawls into my bed, tries to get something off of me.”

Mickey stops folding one of his shirts to look up at her, eyebrows drawing together. “Fuck ‘em, chop their nuts off next time they try it. You okay?”

“I can handle myself.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Sandy doesn’t say anything else so Mickey goes to fold his shirt again. When he’s reaching back into the bag, she breaks the silence. “Look at you. All worried about me and folding your clothes in your boyfriend’s shitty house. Soft bitch.”

“Ay, fuck off.”

Mickey hears the bathroom door open and raises his eyebrows, looking back at the doorway with a smile already on his face.

“_Oh_,” Sandy drawls when Ian walks through the door, towel set low on his hips. “There he is.”

“Yeah, good to see you too, Sandy.” Ian points a smile at her then looks back distractedly while he rifles through his clothes. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Oh, right. “Hey, I had shampoo and shit. You find my soap anywhere?”

Sandy makes a noise. “You’ve been gone for _years_. You think your dumbass brothers would have saved that shit for you?”

Mickey just rolls his eyes. “Guess not.”

Ian pauses near the door. “You can use mine for now. We’ll hit Costco later. I’m getting paid.”

“Nah, P.O. texted me when you were in the shower, he’s got a job for me at the mall. I get off at six. Think it’ll still be open when we’re both free?”

Ian hums, looking up to the ceiling in thought. Mickey finishes folding one of his vests. “I get off at six-thirty, and I think it’s open until eight? Eight-thirty? We should be okay.”

“Oh, isn’t that cute?” Sandy says. If Mickey’s being honest, he forgot she was even there. “Little domestic bitches.”

Ian, always wanting to put on a fucking show, crosses the room and smacks Mickey’s ass. Mickey loses hold on the shirt he’s folding and smiles up at him bashfully, curls in on himself a little when Ian wraps a big ass arm around his chest and squeezes him. “_Mmm_,” Ian moans, pressing his lips against Mickey’s cheek, tickling him with the vibration of it. Mickey can’t even say anything sarcastic, he just keeps smiling and flips his cousin off while Ian mirrors him. “Thank you.”

When Ian pulls away, Mickey just shakes his head, looking down at the shirt in his hands so none of them can see how giddy he feels. “Hey, you think you can drop me off before you head into the diner? I have to be there by noon.”

Ian’s eyes are warm when Mickey looks up at him. “Of course.”

Mickey manages to keep himself together when, three seconds after introducing herself as Chloe, his new manager hands him a wad of clothes that consists of a lilac polo, khaki shorts, nerdy socks, and an even nerdier belt. To top it off, as soon as he has the shit in his grasp, she says, “Find me when you’re done changing—I have a nametag and headset for you.”

Once he gets changed, he just stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like a fucking idiot. He looks like he’s supposed to be in some precalculus classroom at a stuck-up, preppy private school. He fishes out his phone from his discarded jeans on the floor and takes a quick picture of himself scowling in the mirror, then texts it to Ian.

> i’m gonna kill larry :/

Ian’s reply is almost instant.

> _Holy shit !!! You look cute. :)_

Mickey smiles at the gray text bubble and waits for the next one, watching the typing animation onscreen.

> _When do you get your break?_

Mickey thinks back to what his manager was spitting at him a hundred words per minute.

> _three, i’m pretty sure. why?_
> 
> _I’m gonna come up to the mall and eat some lunch with you on your first day. See you at three !! Good luck. You’ll do great. Love you :)_

Mickey smiles wide at the phone in his hands.

> _love you too :)_

When he gets back to Chloe, she pins his nametag near his heart and hands him a big, dorky headset. He stares at it for a few seconds, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline, before sliding it on. “What’s this for?”

“This here, it connects you to all of our employees working on the floor. If they see anything suspicious, they’ll buzz in and you can hear them,” she explains, tucking a strand of her red hair behind her ear. “Larry told me you have experience working security.”

Mickey scratches at his nose. “I mean—yeah. Worked security in some convenience store near my house, scared the shit out of little kids who wanted to steal candy.”

This answer seemed to satisfy her. She gives him a smile and nods towards the front of the store. “Walk around, but always be near the front. When it’s three, just come and see me so I can record you’re on break.”

With a nod, he walks off to the front of the store and looks around at the advertisements set up near the clothes. _Patterned trousers _for as little as fourteen bucks? Who the fuck says trousers? And who would spend almost fifteen dollars on these ugly pieces of garbage? Jesus Christ.

A customer looking through a bunch of striped shirts looks at him and immediately stiffens when her eyes trail down to his tattoos. It makes Mickey want to laugh, but he just straightens out his back and raises an eyebrow at her in silent warning.

It’s the same old shit for two and a half hours. Walking around, scaring the shit out of people just by angling his arm the right way to show off his tattoos. People don’t really wanna fuck with someone that looks like him, and normally he’d be annoyed that old ladies clutch their pearls and piss their pants when he so much as walks near them but _now_? Now it’s making his job a hell of a lot easier. He’s not complaining. 

Mickey’s somewhere near the jeans in the middle of having a daydream when he hears someone talking to him over the headset. “_Security? We have a code orange. Woman in the green sweatpants is heading out with merch._”

Shit. He looks towards one of the clothing racks and immediately spots the aforementioned green sweatpants. The dumbass lady has a giant bulge in the front of her pants from where she stuffed the clothes in. He presses the button near his ear and talks back quietly, walking towards her slowly.

“Got eyes on her now.” When he continues, his voice is louder, even friendly. “Excuse me? Miss? Hi.”

The lady only holds eye contact with him for a few seconds, then she’s taking off running for the entryway.

“_Shit_,” he spits, breaking off into a run. She throws down a mannequin, and he has to jump over it like a fucking Olympian.

“Cough it up and we’re good!” he yells, and _fuck _they’re out of the store now and running through people who are just parting for them and not even fucking helping him catch this asshole.

“Fuck you! I didn’t steal anything!”

“Then why are you fucking running?!” Some lady and her giant shopping bag gets in his way, and he gently pushes her to the side, following the shoplifter’s direction. “Christ on a fucking _stick_.”

She slows down a little when they get near a sunglass kiosk, and he doesn’t think, just reaches out and grabs at her. She loses her balance and trips on her own feet, sending Mickey tumbling down with her.

“Get _off _me—”

“Shut your face,” Mickey interrupts, pointing down at her from where he’s now sitting on the lower half of her body, pressing his face into hers with intimidation. “I just got out of _prison. _So, I have no qualms about reaching down your throat, through your intestines, and out your _fucking asshole_ to take back whatever you stole. Hand it over.” And, yeah, _normally _he’d be a little nicer. He knows what it’s like to have to swipe some clothes when money’s tight. But _fuck her_ and the way she made him run and fall on his ass. Jesus, his headset is probably broken. That better not come out of his fucking paycheck.

The lady reaches down her sweatpants and takes out the piece of merch she took. “Here. Asshole.”

Mickey stands up and clutches at the fabric in his hands a little tighter in case she tries anything else. When he looks down at it, he makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “You stole this ugly piece of shit? What’s wrong with you—you know what? _Get up_.”

The lady stands up, adjusting her shirt and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What?”

He shoves the ugly yellow fabric to her chest and picks up his headset from near his feet. “_You _are gonna hand this back to the nice little nerd that works at the store.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, you don’t like that? ‘Cause then you’re gonna go buy me a fuckin’ Orange Julius.”

Thankfully, the next thirty minutes go by fast after that whole fucking fiasco (and a really good Tripleberry smoothie). After he checks in with Chloe for his break, he immediately takes off towards the food court. When he takes his phone out of his pocket he has to keep himself from groaning out loud at the message he sees.

> _I’m gonna get there a little late, one of my coworkers still hasn’t shown up. Order something for me? Be there soon, promise !!!_

And, because he’s grumpy and just had to tackle someone to the floor and now has to wait longer to see his boyfriend, he just responds:

> _K._

Mickey orders Ian his usual from Panda Express and something for himself at Sbarro, then he finds a nice table for them in the middle of the food court. He doesn’t bother waiting for Ian to show up because he’s hungry as fuck and the pizza looks good, so he gets started. Of course, _after _he makes sure to properly close the Styrofoam box Ian’s noodles came in so they won’t get cold. 

Mickey finishes one of his pepperoni slices and starts on the second, and he’s so distracted by the sudden realization that he has to save his lilac polo from the dripping sauce and stringy cheese that he doesn’t even notice Ian walking towards the table. Luckily, he leans forward and all of it flops onto his tray.

“Graceful.”

Mickey chooses to ignore the jab and smiles up at him. “About time, man. Your Panda Express is getting cold.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Ian apologizes, settling into the chair across from Mickey. He takes a napkin from the dispenser on the table and reaches out to wipe at the corner of Mickey’s mouth. “Maria was running late because of her kid, and I had to stay until she showed up. Anyway, you get me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey interrupts. “I still remember what your picky ass likes.”

Ian smiles so wide that Mickey can’t help but let the joy infect him and smile back at him. He opens up his Panda Express and makes a pleased noise as he reaches for his fork. “What other orders of mine do you remember?”

“Eat your fucking noodles, Ian.”

Ian eats his fucking noodles. When he swallows his bite, he looks back up. “You having a good first day?”

Mickey puts his slice of pizza on his tray and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Hell no, man. Had to tackle some lady for stealing an ugly fuckin’ dress.”

Ian mumbles around a new mouthful of noodles impatiently, and his eyes are so big that it’s honestly fucking hilarious. But Mickey doesn’t want him to worry so much that he chokes on some fucking Chinese food.

“Yeah, alright, mumbles. I’m _fine_, she was like, five feet tall. I just made her walk her ass back to the store and give it back to the little nerd who works with me.”

Ian doesn’t say anything after he finishes swallowing his food, just scans his eyes over Mickey’s face, his arms, then ducks down to look at his legs under the table. “You’re okay, though? Jesus, I just had to fix up your face a week ago. Stop getting hurt.”

Mickey wants to be annoyed, but it’s practically impossible. Ian’s eyes are so big and worried and he’s got a forkful of noodles suspended in the air with how still his body went with worry. “I’m _fine_, Ian. Promise.”

“Alright,” Ian grumbles, only half believing him as he takes another bite.

“C’mon, grumpy pants. You didn’t come over here on your break just to fuss over me like a fuckin’ grandma. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Got some good tips earlier.”

“That right? You shake your ass in some tiny gold shorts when you gave ‘em their drinks?”

Ian breaks out into laughter, the creases on his forehead smoothing out. Christ, it’s so easy to get him to laugh, and he’s never been more thankful for that. “Fuck off. I’m just a damn good waiter.”

Mickey takes another bite of his pizza, raising his eyebrows at him. “I know you are.”

“Kinda excited to go to Costco. I ran out of my caramel almond and sea salt Kind bars this morning.”

“_Jesus, _you and your fucking Kind bars.”

Ian drops his fork in his noodles and stares at him with cold eyes. “Mick, you’re the reason I ran out of those, you asshole. You love them! You’re just scared to say you enjoy anything other than your gross pork rinds because you’ve spent so long pretending they’re gross.”

Mickey crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “You don’t know shit, Gallagher.”

“_Anyway_,” Ian changes the subject quickly and has this god-awful smirk on his face that lets Mickey know he’s about to say something stupid as shit. “You really do look cute in that outfit.”

Mickey clicks his tongue and raises his eyebrows again. “Yeah, I look real fuckin’ cute in a stupid purple shirt and khakis. My socks are halfway to my ass, too. That’s _real_ sexy.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re supposed to look sexy working at fuckin’ Old Army.”

They eat in a comfortable silence for a while until Ian pulls out his buzzing phone from his jacket pocket. Once he reads over it, he sighs and leans back in his chair. “Shit. Gotta head back soon. Jackson needs to leave early.” Ian pockets his phone and starts to eat a little faster.

“Hey, hey, no, you’re gonna make your stomach hurt doing that. Just save it for later, dipshit.”

“It’s gonna get all gross in the car, though.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “They have a little fridge in the back of Old Army’s, genius. I can keep it there for you.”

Ian seems to agree to that because he closes his box of food and wipes his mouth with his napkin, then stands up from his seat. “I’ll come pick you up after my shift, then we can head to Costco.”

Mickey hums affirmatively around his mouthful of pizza crust. “Sounds good. Get over here.”

With a wiggle of his eyebrows, Ian makes his way to Mickey’s side of the table and leans down. It’s _weird_, the way Mickey doesn’t hesitate to close the distance between them and kiss him. It’s short and sweet and chaste and there’s what seems like a million people around them in the food court, but Mickey’s heart doesn’t even threaten to beat out of his chest out of fear of who could be watching them. Well—his heart _does _threaten to beat out of his chest, but not for that reason. It’s because he’s so fucking in love with the guy, and it’s been _years_, he _should_ be used to it. But he thinks he might not ever get used to it—the way he loves Ian and the way he’s loved in return.

When they pull away, Mickey can feel himself beaming up at Ian. His fucking cheeks hurt with how wide he’s grinning, and he can only imagine how much of a lovestruck asshole he must look like. “Go make some more tips, tough guy.”

“You did really good on your first day,” Nelson says from where he’s standing behind Mickey, waiting for his turn to clock out. “No one’s ever went that hard over a shoplifter.”

Mickey snorts, stepping away from the machine and pocketing his employee card. “I used to work another security job, I was pretty damn good at it.”

“Glad you’re with us, then. The last security guard we had just slept in the back. Or he snuck out to get some Auntie Anne’s. I was sick of being yelled at by Chloe when someone took off with a dress like it was _my _fault.”

Mickey’s never been good at small talk. It makes him feel uncomfortable, like he wants to jump out of his own skin. But Nelson’s nice enough and unassuming, and he does have to see the guy almost every day, so he takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down so he can respond. “Yeah, that sucks.”

After swiping his card, Nelson nods at him and heads back towards the locker room. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Mickey changes back to his normal clothes in a bathroom stall. He very nearly cries tears of joy when he looks in the mirror and doesn’t see that terrible polo shirt staring back at him. If you ask him, it’s not fair that Nelson gets to wear a blue shirt while he’s stuck with fucking purple. It’s not even a _cool _purple—it’s all light and cutesy, and he’s always been firm in the belief that he looks shitty in those kinds of colors.

He walks out to the front of the mall and finds a nice bench under a tree to wait for Ian. He wipes off the spot beside him and gently sets his uniform down then takes his phone out to waste a little time.

There are two unread messages when his screen lights up. One from Larry:

> _Chloe told me you did great! I knew you would. Don’t forget we’re still in this together, so feel free to contact me whenever you need to._

And one from Ian that reads,

> _On my way! _

Ian’s makes him laugh because Mickey knows he just entered “omw” like the lazy piece of shit he is and let his phone correct it.

A sudden honk pulls him from his thoughts and makes him jump, and Mickey doesn’t even have to look up because he can hear Ian cackling from several yards away.

“Oh, fuck you,” he murmurs under his breath, gathering up his uniform. When he starts walking towards the car, he uses his free hand to flip his boyfriend off. “The fuck’s so funny, asshole?”

By the time Mickey’s opening up the passenger door to Lip’s ugly ass car, Ian’s laughter is winding down. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Aw, _come on_, stop pouting.”

Mickey throws his uniform down by his feet and looks over at Ian, scowling. “You’re a douchebag.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come here.”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey leans across the car while tugging at his seatbelt so he go even further into Ian’s space. He’s annoyed, but not _that _annoyed. He’ll never pass up a kiss.

Costco is crowded when they enter, and Mickey almost immediately wants to bail. Ian seems to pick up on his body language, because he does that _thing _he always does when he wants Mickey to feel more comfortable in public places. He puts his hand on the small of Mickey’s back and applies a little pressure, even if it looks awkward as fuck since he’s pushing the cart forward with his other hand. Mickey feels his neck warm up at the contact.

They get soap, shampoo, and conditioner, and Ian has to stop Mickey from screaming in the aisle because it’s all so _expensive_. Isn’t Costco’s whole thing about saving their customers money and shit?

(“What do you expect? We’re buying it in bulk—”

“That stupid fucking shower gel you picked out is a _single _bottle and it’s twenty bucks! It better do some fucking magic tricks while I shower or something. _Jesus_.”)

Once Ian sets his giant case of Kind bars in the cart, Mickey starts sneaking his favorite snacks underneath it. He’s not being subtle at all, but Ian’s too busy looking through each and every item to notice what’s going on right in front of him. It’s honestly hysterical, but Mickey forces his laughter down. He’s not about to give up his junk food.

Mickey eventually gets found out when they’re paying. He’s pretending like the automatic doors are the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on so he can remain straight-faced when Ian sighs deeply from behind him.

“Mick, are you _fucking _kidding me? When did you even put this shit in here?”

He turns around with wide, innocent eyes and puts his hands up in surrender. “Wait what? What’s wrong?”

“Slim Jims, chocolates—_d__ill pickle chips_? Since when do these exist?”

Mickey takes one look at the betrayed expression on Ian’s face and bursts out into a loud cackle that scares an old lady in the next checkout line. “Hey, you know what? Fuck off, I’ve had enough dark chocolate granola whatever the fucks you force me to eat in the morning. I think I deserve this.”

Ian rolls his eyes and begrudgingly puts Mickey’s snacks on the conveyor belt. “I can’t stand you sometimes. Thank fuck it’s not your pork rinds, they make your breath unbearable.”

“You want me to go back and get a big ass bulk of ‘em?”

“I’d rather die a horrific death, fuck you very much.”

When Mickey looks over at the cashier, she’s just smiling at them like they’re the most entertaining thing she’s seen all day. And, instead of scoffing and telling her to fuck off and mind her own business like he would have a few years back, he cracks a smile at her and nods in Ian’s direction. “This one. Fuckin’ health nut. Doesn’t ever know when to relax. _Hey, _tell him those dill pickle chips are good.”

“Please stop annoying this poor woman, Mick.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. the rating has gone from teen and up to mature! next chapter it’ll change to explicit. just a lil warning! :)  
2\. i hope your 2020 is starting off well! <3

There’s only so much Gallagher antics Mickey can take.

On Monday, it was Franny. Not so much the kid herself, but the goddamn assortment of plastic food that came with her play kitchen set from hell.

When he wandered out into the hallway to brush his teeth before bed, he learned pretty quickly that the miniature pizza toy she loved to walk around with has the sharpest corners known to man.

Mickey’s pretty tough because he simply _needed _to be in the household he was raised in; his pain tolerance is probably a lot higher than the average person’s. He’s not saying the little plastic pizza was comparable to being shot in the ass, but… it was definitely up there.

On Wednesday, it was breakfast. Even though the Mexican family Carl had let stay for a couple weeks moved across town, the kitchen was still jam-packed. Debbie, Franny, Liam, and Tami were sitting at the table making a whole ruckus over the fact their pancakes were a little on the burnt side, Lip was bouncing a fussing Freddie in his arms near the full sink, and Frank was yelling about something or other near the washing machine. 

Mickey had stood at the bottom of the stairs for a good few seconds, gawking at the scene before him with raised eyebrows. It’s been _years _and these people were still so goddamn noisy in the morning, but it’s not like he ever really expected that would change.

When Liam took off for school, Ian replaced his seat at the table while Mickey finished piling up his plate with sausages and pancakes. He took one look at the crowded table and sighed, choosing to stand beside the kitchen island even though he’s pretty sure he should be able to sit down for breakfast in his own house. Well—his boyfriend’s house. Close enough. 

He hadn’t even taken two bites into his sausage patty when Ian, with a full mouth, had said, “Mick, come sit down.”

“And where exactly do you want me to sit?”

Ian smiled playfully and scooted his chair further out from the table, patting at his thighs. “Right here.”

His legs _were _pretty tired from standing eight hours at work the previous day. It took him a minute of staring down at Ian like he had completely lost his shit before he made up his mind. Mickey sighed exaggeratedly, picked up his plate that was nearly overflowing with the amount of food he tried to fit on it, and sat down on Ian’s lap in front of the whole family. 

The following couple minutes of everyone cooing at them and wolf-whistling and making a whole scene while he was trying to enjoy his burnt pancakes was definitely not worth resting his legs. (Franny took a picture. Who the fuck let her have a phone?)

On Thursday, it was Lip being Lip. Enough said. 

And now, on a Saturday morning, Liam is staring straight at him getting his dick sucked because some moron decided to install an accordion door. Why they’re even _called_ doors, Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. 

He nearly knees Ian in the face when he notices Liam. He opened his eyes for a split second to get a good look at Ian’s pretty mouth stretched around him, and from his peripheral vision, he saw the ‘door’ was slightly moved to the side, and that there was an eye peeking in. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” 

Ian pops off of him with a loud noise and stares up at him incredulously, closely tracking the way Mickey fumbles around on the bed to cover his bare lower half and gape at the doorway with flushed cheeks. “Mick? What’s wrong?”

“Your—_Liam_! Do you fuckin’ need something, kid?”

Liam, seemingly unaffected by the scene, pushes the door shut again after a second of being frozen in place. His voice is loud and even from the hallway when he responds. “I heard weird sounds, thought one of you was dying. I’ll go wash my eyes out with soap now.”

“Christ,” Mickey sighs, reaching out to wipe the moisture from Ian’s lips with the pad of his thumb. “Get up, man. Not in the mood anymore.”

Ian whines in protest and reaches under the blanket Mickey sloppily covered himself with. His smooth hand trails up Mickey’s thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake, but it doesn’t affect him the way Ian’s wanting it to. Nothing kills a boner faster than a kid brother being a peeping tom. “Oh, come _on_. It’s not like it’s the first time Liam’s caught us.”

“It was one thing when he was a fuckin’ toddler, Ian. He’s like… a _real_ _person_ now.”

Ian lets out an easy laugh and drags himself up into a seated position on the bed. His hair’s all messy from the way Mickey was running his fingers through it, the short strands in the front curling up near his forehead. His lips are full and red, still slick with spit even after Mickey attempted to wipe him clean. “Alright, alright, fine. But if I remember correctly, _you_ were the one who blew me under a sheet when he was literally in the same room.” 

Mickey scoffs. He still remembers that day so clearly: he desperately wanted to make Ian feel normal in any manner possible while Liam was awake behind them and Debbie was obnoxiously singing down the hallway like a jacked-up teenage girl. It somehow feels like yesterday and a whole other lifetime all at once. “And like I said, he was a toddler, so it didn’t count. Plus, I at least had the decency to cover us up, unlike your ass.”

“Whatever. Go make us some scrambled eggs while I shower. It’s your turn.”

It takes Mickey a few moments to haul his lazy ass out of their bed and put his boxers back on. He’s too busy thinking about how better it would be if they had some place they could call their own.

* * *

Mickey’s not one to keep things from Ian, but he doesn’t exactly know how to bring this idea up. 

He’s gotten a lot more comfortable being able to vocalize his thoughts and feelings over the years, and sometimes when he thinks about how far he’s come, it’s a bit of a shock to his system.

When he was younger, he tried his hardest to blend in with Terry and his dumbass brothers the best he possibly could: fighting random people outside of school, stealing shit from stores, hiding the most integral part of himself away from the world and attempting to push it out of his mind completely. Now, though, he’s living freely after screaming at his dad that he loved sucking dick and taking it in the ass in the middle of a busy fucking street. He’s living with the man he loves, after years of being committed to each other, and they’ve said shit to each other that puts those stupid rom-coms to shame. Again—a shock to his system. He honestly still can’t fucking believe he _survived_ after coming out at the Alibi all those years ago.

Still, though. This? It’s a big thing. It’s something they’ve never talked about because it had never been possible. Living together, alone. Getting their own place where they were free to do whatever the fuck they wanted at whatever time of day, without the fear of being seen by some toddler or middle schooler or Lip’s annoying ass baby mama. 

He’s been looking up apartment listings on his phone when Ian’s not around, trying to find a reasonably priced place closer to both their jobs. Their jobs pay pretty decently, and he’s still got a big stash of money that comprises the savings Ian gave him at the border and some of his earnings he kept from the cartel, but he doesn’t want to go too far and get something so fancy that’ll leave them homeless and back at the Gallagher house in a few months.

Mickey wants to build a home, a real _life_ with the man he loves, but it’s still a little off-putting thinking about the future. He’s been hurt too many times and there’s always a voice in the back of his head that’s telling him what the two of them have right now is too good to be true. That it’ll all vanish before his eyes like it had so many times previously.

Him and Ian—they’ve never had anything like this before. There was always some new obstacle they had to conquer together: his dad, his sham wedding, his kid, Ian leaving, Ian’s illness, too many fucking prison stints. Now the biggest conflict they have is who’s gonna walk to the other’s job for lunch when their schedules align. It’s unfamiliar, and it’s so hard to wrap his head around, but he’s so fucking happy for what seems like the first time in his life.

It’s _normal_. He never thought he could experience something this normal.

And the thing is, after a few days of thoroughly searching on countless sites, Mickey’s almost certain he’s found the perfect place for them. It’s a few blocks from the mall and Ian’s diner is a bit further in the other direction, but it’s still a reasonable distance to walk.

Ian’s been complaining that he needs to start exercising again, and back when he first started his meds he really enjoyed going for a walk after his morning dose. It could be a good thing for him, getting some fresh air and letting his meds settle before his shift begins. _And_, they wouldn’t have to use Lip’s stupid car anymore. That’s a big ass plus.

It has a big living room, a bedroom and bathroom, a decent kitchen space. It’s not entirely furnished but there’s a nice-looking couch and a good amount of kitchen appliances included from what he read on the page.

The building has a bunch of good reviews too, from what he’s been reading. Nice landlord, quick service if something needs fixing up. There’s even someone raving about the water pressure which makes Mickey chuckle. Yet another pro to add to his list. The Gallagher house probably has the worst water pressure in all of America. 

It’s a long shot. Mickey knows it is. They’re both felons, which gives them a horrible start to begin with, and even then, he doesn’t know a thing about starting the apartment application process. He’s never had to think about anything like this. But he has to at least _try_, right? The thought of still living with all these Gallaghers and their spawn when him and Ian are old and wrinkly sends shivers up his spine. Jesus, no thanks. 

> _hey, larry. i need some advice when you’re free_

Mickey shouldn’t really be surprised when his phone buzzes on the kitchen table a few minutes later. The dude is always available to talk, which is kinda nice when he thinks about it. Larry’s starting to grow on him. He looks away from the apartment listing on the laptop he swiped from Debbie’s room and unlocks his phone.

> _Good afternoon, Mr. Milkovich! What kind of advice?_
> 
> _it’s about an apartment? i’ve been thinking of getting a place and i kinda have no idea where to start. _

The door suddenly swings open from behind him and for a terrible second, he thinks he’s been busted. He lets out a heavy, relieved sigh when he turns his head and locks eyes with Liam, then slowly lets his hand lower from where he tried to cover the laptop screen. “Christ, I thought you were Ian.” 

“That’s not suspicious at all,” Liam remarks, walking closer to the table. He sets his backpack on the floor next to his chair, settling in across from Mickey. “What are you doing?”

Mickey considers lying. But then again, maybe if he talks this through with someone, he’ll know if it’s a stupid idea or not. So, he sighs quietly, sucks it up, and prepares to talk about adult type shit to a kid that saw him and his brother in an extremely compromising position only a few days prior. _Jesus_. “Looking at apartments. I think I found a good place.” He watches Liam’s face carefully, but his expression doesn’t change while he’s fishing out his multicolored school folders and setting his homework in front of him. 

“For you and Ian?”

“Yeah, for me and Ian.”

Liam hums thoughtfully, pencil scribbling across the top of one of his worksheets. Slowly, though, Mickey watches as his face breaks out into a shit-eating grin. 

“The hell are you smilin’ about, nerd?”

“You looking for a new place because I walked in on—?”

“Ay,” Mickey interrupts quickly, gently kicking at Liam’s shin underneath the table. “I just now got over that whole thing, so I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up, thank you very much. Christ, I liked you better when you said, like, two words every other day.”

Liam’s quietly laughing his ass off by the time Mickey finishes his sentence, eyes still focused on his homework. “I liked you better when I didn’t understand what you were saying.”

Mickey can’t help but snort. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

“You and Ian find anything good yet?”

“Well, uh,” Mickey scratches at his nose and sucks on his bottom lip for a second before releasing it. “I haven’t really talked about it with him yet. I was just, you know… playing around with the idea. Think it’s about time we do something about constantly living with a million other people, you know?”

Liam looks up from his worksheet, brow furrowed. “Why haven’t you talked about it with him? You two probably want the same thing. Duh.”

Mickey can’t help but pause and look at the kid for a second. He’s so much bigger than the last time Mickey was living here. He’s growing into his features and he’s so smart, actually doing his homework right after getting home from school like an absolute square. He’s adorable as hell, too, even if he _is _a little shit sometimes. “Yeah. Maybe. Jeez, you’re so big. Giving me advice and shit.”

Beaming, Liam twirls around the short, beat up pencil he’s holding. “I grew a lot while you were away. I’m the tallest kid in my class.”

“No shit? That was never the case with me. Little fuckin’ shrimp all the way until, like, the fifth grade.”

“Aw, you mean you haven’t grown since then?”

Mickey’s phone buzzes loudly against the table as he shakes his head and stares at Liam with the straightest expression he can manage. “You better be lucky I’m having an important conversation, asswipe.”

> _I’m happy to assist you! I’ve helped a lot of my parolees get really nice places. Here’s what kind of information you need for any potential apartment applications just so you have it ready: social security number, vehicle information (if applicable), ID, current and previous addresses + employment information, and proof of income. Have you started looking at local listings?_
> 
> _yeah, i actually have my eye on a place. it’s closer to where ian and i work _
> 
> _Email me the listing and I’ll start looking into it. In the meantime, gather all the information I listed above. I’ll update you soon!_
> 
> _yeah, alright. thanks_

“The hell are you smiling about, nerd?” Liam parrots, same shit-eating grin on his face when Mickey looks back up at him. 

“I think my P.O.’s gonna help me with the place. Said he helped some other jokers out with their applications and it worked out for them.” Mickey doesn’t want to get too excited, but he can’t help but feel a little fucking giddy. The thought of him and Ian having a place of their own gives him the warmest feeling in the center of his chest.

This time, when the door opens from behind them, Mickey doesn’t scramble to hide the screen. He knows it’s Ian coming home from work, and—what the hell? He figures it’s as good a time as any to bring the whole thing up, there’s no use in keeping it to himself and making himself sick with uncertainty.

“What are you guys up to?” Ian asks after setting Lip’s keys down on the kitchen island, circling back to the table to press a kiss to both of their heads. He takes a seat next to Liam and leans in, looking at the paper he’s working on.

“Math homework,” Liam answers. “Looking for an apartment.”

Ian smile falters. “Why the hell are you lookin’ for an apartment?”

Mickey snorts. “Not him, genius. I am.”

Ian’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes squint in Mickey’s direction. His mouth eventually falls open, and his eyes scan around the room as if the answers to his inevitable questions are pinned to one of the cabinets or the fridge. “Why the hell do _you_ need an apartment?”

“_We_ need an apartment because we’ve never had a place where it’s just the two of us. I figured we could—you know… start looking? Don’t know about you, but I’m gettin’ kind of sick of this place.”

“You—?” Ian breathes out. The beginning of one of his warm, gentle smiles starts to pull at his lips. “When did you start lookin’?”

“When your asshole of a little brother stared me dead in the eyes when you had my—”

“_Okay_, okay!” Liam interrupts. “I know I joked about it earlier but that doesn’t mean it didn’t traumatize me for life, too.”

“Well, serves you right, bein’ such a fuckin’ lookie-loo,” Mickey retorts before pulling his attention back to Ian. Ian’s face is easy, eyes all affectionate and sparkling. It distracts him for a second, makes him want to lean across the kitchen table and kiss him. “Anyway, I think I found somewhere that could work. It’s closer to our jobs, comes with a couch and a few other things so we can at least save a _little_ money. I mean—I know I didn’t bring it up to you yet, but… yeah, I just—I was a little… I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ian reaches forward and covers Mickey’s hand with his own, his ring finger rubbing against the ‘P’ tattoo on his pinkie. He always does that when he knows Mickey’s a little uncomfortable with whatever situation they’re in. “Hey. I understand. It’s a big step,” He pauses, probably trying to choose his words carefully. “But I really hope you know you can always talk to me about anything that’s on your mind. Whatever it may be.”

“Um,” Liam noisily gathers up his homework and throws his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah. You two have your moment. Don’t want you to start anything at the kitchen table.”

Directing his grin to Liam, Ian shakes his head affectionately. “Yeah, you go do your fractions. We’ll call you down when we decide on dinner. You know if Debbie’s gonna be in tonight? Or Carl?”

“Think Debbie said something about working late, and I don’t know what the hell Carl’s up to,” Liam’s paused at the start of the stairs, waiting for his cue to get the hell out of there. Mickey can’t blame him, he’d be really fucking uncomfortable around someone else’s lovey-dovey bullshit, too. Especially after was he saw.

“Okay. I’ll call you down later, maybe we’ll go to Patsy’s with Franny.”

With a nod, Liam’s taking off up the stairs, leaving the two of them deserted in the kitchen. Mickey hates that he feels a little nervous now that they’re alone. It’s just _Ian_. And judging by his face, this conversation is about to go as well as he had been hoping it would.

“So,” Ian starts, turning back to face him. That little smile is back, and Mickey’s nerves slightly settle. “You really think you found a place?”

Mickey turns his palm over so he can hold Ian’s hand properly. “Yeah, I think I did. I even texted Larry about it to see if he could help me out ‘cause I don’t know shit about apartment applications.”

“You willingly texted _Larry_? Jesus, you really are serious about this.”

“Fuck off, man,” Mickey snorts, squeezing Ian’s hand. “Yeah, I did. He told me all the paperwork I should find, said he’d help me out with it.”

Ian breaks out into a _beam_. His grin is so intense that it makes his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunch up, and Mickey really believes that Ian might be the most beautiful person who’s ever walked this shitty planet, with his stupid face and his splatter of freckles.

“You gonna say somethin’? Or are you just gonna keep smilin’ at me like some fuckin’ weirdo?”

Ian rolls his eyes fondly. “I always used to think about it, having our own place. But something always—you know. Found a way to fuck us over. You got any pictures of it?”

Mickey hums, reaching out to turn Debbie’s laptop so it’s facing Ian. The browser is still open on the listing he bookmarked, two pictures side by side: one of the bedroom and one of the living room. He watches Ian, the way his eyes dart back and forth between the pictures with a mixture of shock and excitement on his face.

Ian releases Mickey’s hand just to click on the enlarge button, making the images expand. “Holy shit. This looks really nice. What made you go for this one?”

“It’s closer to our jobs, for one. I hate taking Lip’s car, it smells like baby shit. And before you start, _yes _I know Freddie is an infant and can’t help the way he blows up his pants. Anyway, you kept talking about how you wanted to exercise more, I thought maybe we could walk to work and stuff.” Mickey always talks so fucking much when he’s nervous, and he can’t seem to stop running his damn mouth. Why is he even nervous right now? For being _thoughtful_? “Like—‘cause, remember when you first started your meds? You liked to walk to work, it gave you time to get over the way it made you feel all shaky before you started your shift.”

“So,” Ian says, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. “What you’re saying is you picked this specific apartment because you listened to me complain about not having enough time to work out? And you knew walking to work would help fix that? And you remember the way I used to deal with the side effects my meds gave me?”

“Um, _yeah_? Why the hell wouldn’t I remember that? You think I got amnesia or some shit?”

Ian’s leaning across the table so fast that Mickey doesn’t really have time to respond. He feels Ian’s hand rest on his jaw and then he’s being kissed, a hard and steady pressure that takes his breath away. Mickey eagerly kisses back, and immediately after letting his lips part he can feel the swipe of Ian’s tongue on his own. The sensation pulls a soft moan from the back of his throat, and before he can turn the kiss into something hungrier, take them both upstairs, Ian’s pulling away just as fast as he came in.

Mickey’s hand distractedly comes up to touch his own mouth, tongue peeking out to lick at his bottom lip. “The hell was that for?”

“Just—I’m pretty sure you’re secretly, like, the most considerate person I’ve ever known. No one’s ever gone out of their way to do shit for me like you always do.”

Snorting, Mickey looks down at his hands just to keep Ian from seeing the blush he can feel rising high on his cheeks. “Whatever, man. It’s not a big deal.”

“But it is,” Ian counters. His voice hardens a little so Mickey can tell he’s being sincere. “I really appreciate you. I don’t say that enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey mumbles shyly, still acting like his hands are the most compelling thing in the kitchen. “Well, I love you and I’ll always look out for you. You should know that by now.”

“I do know,” Ian declares. He reaches out to gently touch Mickey’s chin, then tilts his head up so he’s forced to make eye contact. “I do.”

“Good. _So_,” he starts, raising an eyebrow. “You in?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

* * *

Mickey has never been so bored in his life.

There’s still five minutes until his lunch break begins and time is passing unbearably slow. He’s remarkably impatient today because Ian’s coming by for lunch and all he’s been wanting to do since his shift started is eat something awfully greasy and fret about their application status.

After he finished gathering his important documents and information, Larry helped him put together the application following the drug test he took yesterday. There was a stupid fifty-dollar fee, but other than that, it was relatively easy. He had all the material the landlord asked for, so Larry submitted it for him right then and there after organizing everything to look all fancy and well put together. He even put himself down as a personal reference since he somehow knew the lady that owns the building.

Fucking Larry, man. Mickey never would have guessed he would end up thinking the world of this dude after the chaos of their first encounter.

He’s circling the rack of dumb graphic t-shirts when Nelson appears at his side, looking as bored as Mickey feels. “What’s up? Someone about to take an ugly sweater?”

Nelson chuckles, fixing his lopsided headset. “Nah, nothing like that. I was just seeing if you were free for break. You could join me and Alondra, that new girl Rosalinda, too.”

“Thanks, but fuck no, man,” Mickey says. He hurries to add on to his sentence when Nelson looks a little offended by his response. “My boyfriend’s coming today is all. Maybe tomorrow or something if he can’t make it again.”

When Nelson walks off to join Alondra and their new coworker, he can’t help but snort. He _also_ never would have guessed he would enjoy the company of _Nelson’s_ nerdy ass.

During the first week Mickey started working at Old Army, Nelson saw him sitting alone for lunch when Ian’s schedule didn’t end up aligning with his. He invited Mickey to eat with him and some Mexican chick, and Mickey didn’t want to be an asshole and decline when they had to see each right afterward and then almost every day. So, reluctantly, he moved to sit down at their table.

Alondra ended up being loud as hell, funny, too. She calls them both _gringo _and nearly had a fucking heart attack when he spoke some of the Spanish he picked up in Mexico. (He had to lie and say he remembered it from high school, which—that’s real fuckin’ hilarious.) Nelson’s the biggest dweeb Mickey’s ever met, and he talks about _Lord of the Rings _like it’s still relevant but he’s witty and they somehow get along despite how comically different they are.

It finally hits two o’clock, and after checking in with Chloe to begin his break, Mickey makes his way towards the food court. He can’t stop the grin that pulls at his lips when he spots Ian already at a table, eating from his salad bowl and laughing at whatever’s on his phone. Across from him, there’s a tray with two slices of pizza, one pepperoni and one sausage, and a tall drink. It kinda makes him grin like an idiot, the way they always know what the other wants for lunch. (Not that Mickey’s particularly difficult about his food preferences—he’d eat pizza every day if he could. Still, it makes him smile. _Ian_ makes him smile.)

When he slides into the seat, Ian looks up at him and grins around a mouthful of lettuce. Once he swallows, he greets, “Hey, Mick. Got you your food.”

Mickey, already taking the sausage slice in both of his hands, grunts in response. “Thanks, I’m fuckin’ starving. What’re you smilin’ about over there?”

Ian huffs out a laugh, turning his phone around so Mickey can see the screen. “Larry sent me a motivational quote.” There’s a picture of some random field of flowers and big, bold white letters that read: _The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another. _“Think he’s trying to calm us down over the apartment stuff. Is it stupid if this kinda helped?”

“Nah, man,” Mickey says. “It’s nice he’s trying to make you feel better. You’re probably the only person in the world who gets emotional at those dumbass things, though.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ian laughs, poking around some of the croutons and chicken with his fork. “He’s so nice. You ever think about how we could’ve had some corrupt P.O. who made us do their dirty work? Instead, we got this genuinely nice guy who helps us out with the random shit we bother him with.”

After Mickey swallows his mouthful of pizza, he shakes his head. “Yeah, no thanks. I’ve had one too many corrupt P.O.s, I would have snapped and threw them out a window or something, get my ass sent back to the joint. Glad we got him.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Ian teases, then leans forward in his seat, nerves clear in the way his shoulders are stiff. “You, uh—you hear anything yet?”

Mickey takes a breath, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nah, not yet. Larry said it would take, like, twenty-four to forty-eight hours for a response, remember? Think I might die before then, though.”

Ian groans impatiently, eating another bite of his salad. “I’ll bring back a couple slices of this new chocolate pie they just started serving at work when I pick you up later. Think we deserve it.” 

They’re in bed that night, full after a homemade dinner and the chocolate pie Ian brought home from work, when Mickey realizes he’s too nervous to sleep. Ian’s lying on his back so Mickey can curl into his side and rest his head on his chest, and, usually, the thrum of Ian’s steady heartbeat calms Mickey down enough to fall into a nice sleep. Tonight, though, he can’t stop staring up anxiously at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on Ian’s bare stomach.

“Hey. You still awake?”

Ian laughs quietly, turning his head to press a tender kiss to Mickey’s hair. “Yeah. I can’t sleep, either.”

Mickey’s quiet for a few moments, wondering whether he should voice his fears. He doesn’t want to tempt the universe to fuck this whole thing up, and he definitely doesn’t want to make Ian even more nervous about it, but he thinks back to the other day when Ian said he hoped Mickey knew he could always talk about whatever’s on his mind. No matter what it was about.

Their room is so quiet, making their soft breathing sound louder than it actually is. Outside, there’s a train horn, distant sirens, someone loudly walking down their street. Mickey takes a deep breath, his hand stilling on Ian’s hip. “Do you think this’ll work out, Ian?”

“I hope so. I mean—Larry seemed to be pretty confident about it. I’m trying to think positively, you know? Manifesting and all that shit.”

Mickey breathes out a quiet laugh, his thumb tracing soft circles onto Ian’s skin. “I just—_Jesus_, I’ve never wanted anything to work out as much as this. We’ve never been able to… _think _about this until now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes back, “I know. Everything’s different. We can actually move forward, there’s no stupid shit getting in our way.”

“Ian?”

Ian hums in response, moving his hand away from Mickey’s shoulder to run his fingers through his hair the way he knows he likes. 

“I don’t want anything to mess it up,” Mickey whispers into the darkness of the room, letting his hand settle over Ian’s heart. “What we have right now.”

“Nothing’ll mess it up. You still remember what we talked about that night you came in through the window, right?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“We’ll be okay, Mick. I Promise.”

* * *

Mickey curses under his breath when he gets to the time clock and realizes he left his employee identification card in the pocket of his jeans, which are now secured in his locker.

Once he unfastens the padlock and opens the locker, the first thing that catches his eye is his phone. It’s all lit up and has a couple notification blocks displayed on the screen. His stomach drops immediately, because whenever his phone starts blowing up it’s never a good fucking sign.

He lets out a shaky breath after he hastily scans over the screen and doesn’t see Ian’s name anywhere on it. Ian’s stable, he has been for a while, but he’s always prepared for if something suddenly goes awry.

There’s a missed call and text from an unknown number. When he unlocks his phone, he nearly drops it.

> _Good morning, Mikhailo! I tried calling you, but I realized you’re already at work when it went straight to voicemail. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve approved your application and you’re all set to move in as early as next Friday. Please let me know if you’re still interested so I can get your hold fee, which is your reservation deposit for the apartment. Once I get this fee, you can pick up the key at any time. Looking forward to hearing back from you!_

“Holy fuck,” Mickey exhales. “Holy fuck.” He reads it over three times before he starts to type out a response.

> _hi sorry, yes i was just about to clock in but we’re still very much interested. i can get that hold fee to you as soon as possible _

As soon as he hits send, he goes to his favorites list and calls Ian. His heart is fucking _racing_, and when the line finally stops trilling, he can’t help the god-awful giggle that escapes his mouth. He feels like he’s made up of pure excitement and adrenaline. This type of shit just doesn’t happen to him.

“Mick? The hell was that, are you o—?”

“We got the apartment.”

“_What_?”

“We got the fucking apartment, Ian,” he rushes to say, letting out another giddy little laugh. He _should _be embarrassed at the way he sounds, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Not right now.

“Holy _fuck_—Oh, I’m sorry Adrian, yeah, I’ll keep it down—Mick, holy shit.” Mickey laughs at the way Ian didn’t even attempt to lower his voice after saying he would.

“Hey. We don’t have to see Frank in his underwear when we go downstairs to make pancakes, no more Debbie coming home late with her loud ass heels. We don’t gotta see Iggy high off his ass in my living room or—or deal with my _dad _being so close to us. Jesus Christ, I feel like I just did a line of coke. How did this even work out?”

Ian’s laugh that bubbles out over the line mirrors Mickey’s earlier ones. “Fuck if I know. Mick, I think I might kiss Larry on the mouth. I can’t believe he helped us with this, I can’t believe it _worked_. I’ve met so many people who couldn’t get approved for _shit _because they’re on parole.”

“Ay, first of all, don’t go leaving me for Larry, ya gross prick,” Mickey jokes, looking back at the clock. It’s nearly eight and everyone already seems to be getting started with their specific assignments when he glances at the front of the store through the cracked door. “Hey, look, I gotta get going. I don’t want Chloe jumping on my ass if I’m even a minute late.”

“Yeah, alright, I have to go too. I’m pretty sure Adrian’s about to kick my ass. We’ll talk about this later, though, okay?” The next time Ian talks, his voice is significantly lower and closer to the speaker. “And _I’ll _definitely be jumping on your ass when we get home.”

“Christ, Ian, with your gay ass,” Mickey looks behind him and when the coast is clear, continues lowly, “You fuckin’ _better_.”

Ian snorts. “Bye. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

After he clocks in and Nelson asks about what’s got him in such a good mood this early in the morning, he’s actually excited to run his mouth about the news he received.

Apparently, Alondra’s never seen him smile that big before, because throughout the rest of their shift she keeps calling him _conejito_.

(“Fuck off, how am I a bunny?”

“Well just look at your cute little smile and your bunny teeth, _güey_. If I’m giving you a cute nickname it’s the highest form of flattery. Embrace it, _conejito_.”

“Yeah, ‘cause telling me I have bunny teeth is such a fuckin’ compliment, Alondra.”)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, sorry this took so long! my spring semester started and also i may or may not have been having daily meltdowns about the wedding. here’s to hoping i update quicker now that i’m getting the hang of my schedule <3

“Jesus, you can’t just show up in a tank top. You really want our landlord to see those massive fucking tits on your shoulder?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause when she hands over the key and sees the giant _fuck _across your knuckles, that’ll be so much better.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. He wants to roll them back even further when he finishes descending the stairs and is suddenly met with Lip’s smug face, half-hidden behind his cup of coffee. _Great_. That’s _just_ what he needed. “Ay, what’s that face for?”

“You know. I’m just kinda sad I won’t hear you two bickering like an old married couple anymore. It was like my own uncensored reality TV show, no commercials. Except—you know. All the times you guys went to prison. Those were kinda like the commercials.”

Ian passes Mickey, shooting Lip a _look_ while moving further into the kitchen to grab two granola bars from the cabinet. Tit tattoo on full display. Mickey wants to say something real smart about both the prison comment and the stupid fucking tattoo, but he settles for a mean grin and a middle finger in Lip’s direction. It’s entirely too early for this. It might be past five, but it’s _still _too early.

Tami, holding Freddie close to her chest, makes an intrigued noise from beside the refrigerator after sticking a pacifier in his mouth. “How the hell did you put up with their shit for so long?”

“The asshole makes Ian happy, so I just learned to tune it out after a few years.”

“How about you stop talking about us like we’re not standing right in front of you?” Ian suggests, pausing near Tami so he can reach out and let Freddie grab his outstretched index finger. “Your parents are nosy as fuck, aren’t they, Freds? Aren’t they?”

Lip snorts, setting his now-empty mug in the sink beside the mountain of dirty dishes. “Hey, you guys wanna go grab an early dinner with us?”

“You know, I think I’d rather get pistol whipped.” Mickey deadpans, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at him. He truly can’t imagine anything worse than sitting in some lousy restaurant with Lip and his—whatever the fuck she is. Girlfriend? Are they just together for the kid? Mickey doesn’t fucking know. He doesn’t talk to her enough to care.

Ian makes his way back to Mickey, snaking an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his temple. Mickey tries his hardest to fight the blush he feels creeping up his neck when he sees the way Lip’s looking at them with that snarky little smile he always has. Shithead. “We can’t, anyway. Picking up the key to our place.”

“No shit, that’s today? Already?”

“Make sure to let us know what it feels like living somewhere bigger than an RV.”

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come across like I was bragging or—”

Lip interrupts quickly, an easy grin on his face. “Hey, she’s just fuckin’ with you. We’re all happy for you guys.”

“Jesus,” Mickey groans, shivering his way out of Ian’s grasp to snatch one of the Kind bars from his hand. “Stop bein’ nice to me, makes me feel all itchy.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lip agrees, taking a fussing Freddie from Tami’s arms while adjusting the pacifier in his mouth, “I’ll go back to shit talking you to my brother and half the neighborhood. Relive the good old days.”

“Ay, don’t forget I beat your ass once, man.”

“He did?” Tami erupts, looking Mickey up and down. “How? You’re, like, five feet tall! If that!”

“I’m fuckin’ five seven, thank you very much. Not my fault you’re a goddamn beanstalk.”

Lip bounces Freddie gently, blatantly ignoring Mickey so he can point his amused expression in Tami’s direction. “He had two of his bigger brothers help. _That’s_ how he beat my ass.”

Mickey can’t really say shit. Because—yeah, _mayb_e he did do that. Sue him for wanting to guarantee Lip got his ass handed to him. If it wasn’t Ian’s gangly ass getting a beat down that day, someone else was gonna get it. It just so happened luck was on his side when Lip ran his smartass mouth and gave him a reason to throw a punch. Christ, that was so long ago. Lip was still hanging around _Karen_. It feels like an alternate reality thinking about that shit.

“You guys need a ride? Or were you just gonna take the L or some shit?”

Ian looks like he’s ready to protest, not wanting to interrupt his brother’s dinner date, but Mickey speaks up before he can talk them out of a free car ride. “_Yeah_, you guys can take us. Thank Christ.”

“Okay, but only if you’re going to dinner with us after. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it, asswipe.”

As it turns out, the backseat of Lip’s car was designed just to piss Mickey off. There’s no reason why it should be this fucking small. It’s _useless_.

Freddie’s in the middle, his big ass car seat digging into the side of Mickey’s thigh, and Ian looks so uncomfortable with his long legs digging into the back of the driver’s seat even when he’s trying his hardest to bunch himself up. Yeah, it would have been more comfortable to take the fucking bus.

But, the air conditioner is pleasant against his warm skin and Lip’s playing some band that isn’t half bad, so maybe he’ll just deal with it.

They’re halfway there when Freddie starts crying.

When Yevgeny used to cry for no apparent reason at all, Mickey did what his mom used to do with Mandy. He remembers being a small little thing and watching with wide, curious eyes as his mom used to talk to her like she wasn’t screaming her fucking head off. It somehow worked every time, her loud cries subsiding into tiny little whimpers until she was calm and trying to pay attention to whatever random Ukrainian mythology story was being told. Two for two, so Freddie shouldn’t be so different.

“Hey,” Mickey says softly while reaching into the car seat, his hand hovering near the small seatbelt. He extends his index finger, poking at Freddie’s little clenched fist. “This dumb tiny good for nothing car rocking around, messin’ with your little head? Is that what happened? Mmm?”

Freddie continues to wail, pacifier discarded somewhere near his feet; his fist suddenly opens and he grabs onto Mickey’s finger like it’s his lifeline.

“That’s right, buddy. It’s okay,” he hushes, then looks over at Ian, who’s looking at him with stars in his eyes. Like Mickey hung the damn moon, or something. He’s come to learn that Ian’s got the worst case of baby fever anyone’s ever had in the world, probably. Nearly talked some poor mom’s ear off at Costco about how big and red her daughter’s bow was before Mickey dragged him off and threw an apologetic glance in her direction. “Ay, be useful and boop his nose. Can’t move—he’s got a death grip on my finger. That always makes babies laugh, right? Distracts them or some shit? Worked with Yev all the time.”

Ian quickly reaches out and boops Freddie’s nose a few times with funny little sound effects each time, and his cries get significantly quieter, only tiny little huffs and snuffles now. “Jesus, Mick, I think you might be a baby whisperer. One time I couldn’t get him to stop crying for, like, an hour.”

“He was just scared of you and your alien lookin’ ass,” Mickey jokes, sticking his tongue out at his boyfriend before looking back at Freddie, hurrying to speak so Ian can’t get a word in. “Was that it, buddy? Your uncle Ian look like he’s from outer space? Well, I don’t blame you, kid.”

Freddie babbles, shaking Mickey’s finger around. Christ, the little guy is cute. It’s hard to believe that _Lip _took part in making him.

“Think that was a yes,” Mickey doesn’t have to be looking at Ian to know he rolls his eyes and sticks his chin out defensively. He knows Ian like the back of his hand, seen that look about a million times over the years when Mickey pushes his buttons just right. “It’s okay, Freds. Your uncle Mickey doesn’t look like an alien, right? You’re all good with me?”

“Oh. So, uncle Mickey, huh?” Lip pipes up from the front seat. When Mickey looks up, cheeks already feeling a little warm at the slip up, Lip’s eyebrows are raised and he’s staring right at him through the rearview mirror. “Is that so?”

Mickey opens his mouth a few times and then looks over at Ian for help. But, of course, he’s absolutely no fucking help at all. He’s looking at him with the same starry eyed, lovesick expression, warm smile lighting up his eyes and crinkling them around the edges. Mickey rolls his eyes just to hide how fucking goopy he feels at the way he’s being looked at, then looks back to Freddie’s wide-eyed gaze.

He can’t help but think about that night in prison, when Ian had asked him about marriage, about _kids_. They were good with Yev while he was still around, took turns changing him and singing him to sleep and shit. They were somehow _good _with him, when their family history should have made them the fucking worst caretakers. He grew up with a violent homophobic racist of a father and yet Mickey was gentle, kissed Yev’s forehead when he fell asleep with him on the couch, warmed up his bottles and squirted it on his palm to see if it was too hot for the kid before giving it to him. Ian grew up with a batshit crazy mother and an alcoholic father who beat on him sometimes and yet he held Yev like he was the most precious thing in the world, took care of him even when he took off during his first real experience with his bipolar disorder, gave him old clothes when it was cold outside. It makes Mickey feel warm—the way they’re going to end whatever fucking shitty cycle they were in, if they were to have a kid of their own.

And he’s had a lot of experience other than Yev—with Mandy when he had to look after her when their parents were out doing God knows what, with Sandy when she would spend the night at the house during summer break. He didn’t hate it. Well—he _did_, but he grew to like it in time: rocking them until they were calm, reading them stories. It was nice looking after someone, knowing he could make someone feel safe even when he himself didn’t.

It would be something else, that’s for sure. Experiencing it with Ian alone.

Mickey looks back at Ian and cracks him a little smile.

He remembers saying he was fucked for life all those years ago at the dugout, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. He used to despise thinking about the future, but now it’s all he seems to consider, all he thinks about when his mind wanders in bed late at night.

The image his brain conjures up of Ian with a tiny little redhead in his arms doesn’t scare him. It _excites _him. _Jesus Christ_. That’s probably something he has to bring up soon.

“I made sure to make two keys when I changed the locks, one for each of you,” Vera explains, after five entire minutes of explaining how she knew Larry. Turns out, they were high school sweethearts: met as kids, didn’t start something until they were older, then he moved away for college and that was that. Never saw each other again until some ‘_beautiful_, fated summer night’. Mickey really didn’t give a shit, but what was he supposed to do when his new landlord is giving him her whole life story? Tell her to shut up? No thanks, he’d rather have a roof over his head. “If you ever lose one, the first replacement is free. After that, it’s five bucks a pop.”

“Vera, do you mind repeating that again? Mickey loses everything, let him know he’s gonna be the one paying for replacement keys.”

Before Mickey can smack him in the arm, Vera laughs, running her fingers through her graying hair. “Larry was right, you two _are_ adorable. Sickeningly so. Anyway, here you are,” she slides the two keys across her desk, then shakes a finger at Mickey. “Five bucks, son. Invest in a keychain. I’ll see you both next week on move in day.”

Mickey feels a little dizzy when they exit the building. He thought it was going to be a whole _thing_, not take ten minutes—well, three if you don’t count the amount of time it took Vera to spit out a whole account of her love life.

He was so nervous about this the night before, tossing and turning in bed for almost an hour before his body finally surrendered to sleep. He wondered if she would take one look at him or smell the Southside on both of them and change her mind about the whole thing, tell them to get lost and find another place. But, nope—just a very long monologue and shoving keys into their hands.

When Mickey looks over at Ian, he has to put a hand over his eyes to shield his vision from the setting sun. Ian looks so fucking beautiful like this, in the golden hour. His hair looks like it’s on fire, his freckles so prominent they make Mickey want to figure out how to pause time, to count all of them. Just to know the exact number.

“Holy shit,” Ian finally mutters after a second of silence, reaching between them to take Mickey’s hand. “Yeah, I think it’s finally sinking in.”

“Fuck, I know. There’s a fuckin’ _key_ in my back pocket. Also, if your fuckin’ brother says one word about us holding hands I’ll poison his food in a minute. Spit in his burrito or some shit.”

Ian snorts, squeezing Mickey’s hand gently before letting it go. “You ever think about how all of…_this _happened because I went to your house for Kash’s gun?”

Mickey just stares at him, ignoring the mention of Kash (that fucking _gross bastard_) and the way he can see Lip pulling up from the corner of his eye. In this light, Ian’s freckles are _so_ fucking obvious and easy to see. It reminds him so much of when Ian was younger, when he was more freckle than face. Mickey’s heart pounds a little harder, realizing that he’s been so in love with this guy for just about a fucking _decade_. He’s seen him grow up, he’s been with him through thick and thin, he’s had his heart broken by him more times than he’d like, and he thought he’d never see Ian again at some points, yet: here they are. About to move into their own place. It feels like nothing’s changed, but so much _has. _So fucking much.

Mickey can hear how overwhelmed he feels when he breathes out, “Fuck, I love you,” his voice is shaky and uncharacteristically quiet.

Ian beams, reaches out to touch Mickey’s arm. “Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

* * *

“Three _days_,” Ian drags out, voice like a song. They’re settled in bed after dinner, meds, and a shower, both fresh and clean and smelling like some kind of coconut explosion—because apparently that’s the only scent Ian likes to buy nowadays. He’s pretty sure he has a whole set—lotion included.

Mickey reaches out to poke at the freckles scattered across Ian’s nose, smiling to himself at the way his eyes flutter shut at the gentle contact. “We gotta pack, Freckles.”

Ian scrunches his nose but doesn’t bat Mickey’s hand away. Loves the feeling too much to protest. “Yeah, yeah. I hate that part. Wish we could just—I don’t know. Teleport or some shit. It’s fuckin’ 2020, you’d think by now we’d be further along with technology. Right? I thought we’d definitely have a teleportation device by now.”

“Mmm, wouldn’t that be nice, Nightcrawler,” Mickey tucks his face into Ian’s neck, nose filling up with coconut body wash and shampoo. It’s a long time before he speaks, just breathing in deeply and listening to the faint sound of Ian’s heartbeat. “Ay, you know—I’m really happy. Kinda seems like the universe is finally cutting us some fuckin’ slack.”

He hears Ian press a kiss into his damp hair more than he feels it. “Can’t wait to wake up to a quiet place, cook your lazy ass breakfast in the morning without having to deal with anyone else’s bullshit. We can have lazy days, sit around doing nothing but watching movies and we won’t even get interrupted by Franny wandering in.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hums sleepily, pressing a kiss to Ian’s jaw. “We can fuck anywhere we want. I can be as _loud_ as I want. Let our neighbors know how _good _and _hard _Ian Gallagher gives it to me—”

“Jesus,” Ian interrupts, laughing, smacking Mickey’s hip gently. “You know, I can’t even remember the last time we were allowed to make as much noise as we wanted.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know. Think I might blow out your eardrums the first night. Our entire building might collapse.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ dork,” Ian snorts, then after he takes a pause, his dreamy voice comes back when he speaks again, “We’re so close to work and the park nearby is so good for jogging in the morning. Liam can come over on the weekends, play some games and eat junk food and shit. I can solidify my place as his favorite sibling.”

“No need to. He already thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

“Well, you two have something in common, then.”

Snorting, Mickey bites down lightly on Ian’s throat. “Dick.”

Ian runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair, kisses his temple gentle as can be. It gives Mickey goosebumps. “Can I say something really sappy that’ll probably make you push me out of bed?”

“Don’t know why the fuck you’re asking, you’re gonna say it anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe. So—I kinda think we were made for each other. Like—you know when people say they come from the same star? I don’t know, just—sometimes I feel like I’ve loved you since the beginning. Like I’ve always known you, even when I didn’t even fucking exist. No one’s ever made me feel like this, you know? Not ever. I’ve just—I’ve always known it was you.”

Mickey breathes out, nuzzling against Ian’s throat. It still takes his breath away when Ian says all his sappy thoughts out loud. Hearing Ian talking about them like this, Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, how warm it makes him feel. How _loved_ and safe it makes him feel. “I’ve always known it was you, too. Even when I didn’t fuckin’ act like it.”

The next three days pass by so quickly that it’s honestly a little staggering. All they do is work, come home, pack, then pass out. It’s tiring as fuck, the moving process—Mickey can barely stay awake during his shifts but the excitement of it all gives him a little extra boost during the day when he feels like he’s going to crash. 

When they’re done filling up the secondhand cardboard boxes Ian picked up from the store and they’re all lined up on the front lawn, Mickey can’t help but stare the pile with wide, disbelieving eyes. He _really_ doesn’t understand how the fuck they’ve managed to hoard this much shit over the years. He thought they’d have a few boxes left over, but they filled every single one of them to the brim. Their clothes and random necessity shit they bought for the place took up most of the space (they had a _field day_ at the dollar store), which wasn’t really surprising, but all the little things adding up is what Mickey paid attention to the most. 

Sandy brought over some of his doodles and he didn’t want to lose them for some reason, so he packed all of them up. Once Ian bought him a little keychain from a fifty-cent gumball machine after they snuck into a baseball game—that’s staying. There was a tiny box filled with pictures he took when he was a kid, when he swiped disposable cameras from the drug store. He used to love taking those, making Mandy pose at the playground and Iggy smile with his toothless grin and a skinny middle finger. Another tiny box filled with dumb little mementos he can’t seem to throw away. That one picture of Ian he’s had for _years_, all crinkled and torn. A tattered blanket he’s had since he was a kid, which his mom said would protect him from monsters. There’s so many random things that Mickey’s held onto, so many things he can’t throw away.

He was a little embarrassed at first, having so many stupid things that he kept trying to sneak into boxes behind Ian’s back. But then he saw a box or two Ian had, with the same kind of shit inside. There was a note Mickey had written him a few years ago: _Don’t worry, I’m just out picking up vitamins. I’ll be back soon. _A bunch of report cards from middle and high school, military shit, pictures of the family. And, to Mickey’s surprise, there’s a picture of the two of them in a little frame. He remembers taking it; it was after he had beaten the shit out of Ned and they were so giddy while running through the busy streets that they made dumb faces at the camera for a good few minutes. He didn’t know Ian printed it though, had it _framed_.

Mickey doesn’t know why seeing everything like this is getting to him. He thinks it might be the history they’ve shared, how much they’ve gone through, represented with tiny little things he can _see_, that he can touch. (_Jesus_, he’s getting old and emotional. When he hits thirty he thinks he’ll cry at the sight of Ian’s bedhead in the morning. Like, that’s seriously all it’s gonna take for the waterworks.)

“You okay?”

Mickey blinks a few times, tearing his eyes away from the pile of boxes. Ian’s leaning against the front door, eyebrows raised and an encouraging, open smile on his face. “Yeah, ‘m okay. Just—we kinda made it, didn’t we?”

Ian stays quiet, knowing Mickey has more to say but needs a few moments to gather the words. That gets him too, the way Ian knows him so well they don’t need words to communicate. He walks down the front porch, stands close enough to Mickey that he can rest his palm on his hip.

“When I was younger I thought I’d be fucking dead, you know. Or still trying to please my fucking prick of a father. Then I thought I’d be stuck in Mexico without you, not getting to see your pasty ass burn while we drank cheap tequila on the beach.”

Ian pulls Mickey closer, foreheads nearly touching. There’s crystal clear understanding in his eyes when he reaches out to rest his hand on Mickey’s jaw. “Wanna go home?”

Mickey doesn’t say that it’s _Ian_ that’s home to him, that he’d be home wherever Ian is. He just nods and starts packing up Lip’s car, smiling over at his boyfriend every other second just because he can, because he _wants_ to.

The stupid little clown car is filled to the brim when they’re finished, so much so that Mickey has to keep a box on his lap because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else. They should have just rented a fucking moving truck now that he thinks about it, at least _then_ they wouldn’t have to pay for Lip’s Uber and his legs wouldn’t have gone numb under pots and pans.

As soon as Ian closes the trunk, he makes his way to the driver’s seat. There’s a light silence as he turns the keys and puts his seatbelt on. When he looks over at Mickey, his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. “You ready?”

“Better fuckin’ believe it, Gallagher.”

Ian nods and starts driving. Mickey watches as the Gallagher house gets smaller and smaller in the mirrors, stomach twisting with excitement. That house did them a lot of good—it gave them a place to live when things were too rough at his own house—but there were far too many shitty memories associated with it. It’s like he can feel his shoulders getting lighter the further they drive away from it. That night Sammi had called the fucking military police on Ian, getting broken up with on the front porch, all of that shit feels like it’s behind him, literally and figuratively.

“Iggy texted while you were putting in that last box, said he’d be there in a little under an hour.”

Ian turns left, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “That’s good. Gives us a little time to get started.”

Mickey shifts uncomfortably underneath the heavy box then looks over at Ian. He smiles at his profile, smiles at how his eyes squint a little bit in the sun because he’s too stubborn to wear sunglasses, and he really wants nothing more than to lean over and kiss him. The box is weighing him down, though, so he settles for reaching out and softly stroking his jaw.

Ian immediately leans into the touch and spares him a glance before looking back at the road. “What?”

“Nothin’, man,” Mickey says, thumb moving in slow, soft circles. He can feel the stubble growing back, tickling his fingertip. “You’re just somethin’ else. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re fucking real.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Ian moves Mickey’s hand from his jaw and presses a kiss to his palm. “Thought the same about you since the third grade. Even if you threatened to stab me with that stupid fucking pencil you wouldn’t share.”

Mickey snorts and shoves lightly at Ian’s face. “You big fucking dork, asking for a _pencil_. Jesus, I still remember what you looked like back then, with your billion freckles and curly as fuck hair. Can’t believe I fell in love with _your _ass.”

“Right, ‘cause back then when you looked like you took dirt baths and cut your own hair in front of a mirror that was too tall for you to even see what you were doing, that was any better.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey chuckles, shaking his head while he stares ahead of them, “Hey, remember when we had to do that stupid Thanksgiving play and we had to hold hands onstage during that one pilgrim song?”

“Jesus,” Ian mutters, looking at him with wide eyes before looking back at the road. “Yeah, holy shit. I do. Now that I think about it, that’s probably what did it.”

“Did what?”

“Made me gay.”

Mickey snorts in disbelief, shaking his head slowly while Ian suppresses a grin. “Dumbass.”

“_What_? Holding hands with _the _Mickey Milkovich is definitely what did it.”

“Thank fucking Christ elevators exist,” Mickey breathes out, struggling to catch his breath as he throws down three boxes of clothes near their couch. They were piled so high in his arms that he couldn’t even see in front of him, he had to rely on bumping into shit in the hallway to get to their door. They’re probably gonna get quite a few complaints from their new neighbors, but oh well. They can suck it up.

Ian’s leaning against their kitchen counter, sweat beads shiny on his forehead and temples. His hair is sticking to his forehead and he’s already halfway through his big water bottle. “Maybe we should have just taken a few more trips. My arms feel like fuckin’ Jello.”

“Hell no, man. We’re already done. We’d still be hauling shit inside if we took the easy way out.”

“But at what cost,” Ian sighs dramatically, downing the rest of his water. “Iggy getting here soon?”

Mickey hums and pulls his phone out from his back pocket. His phone had been vibrating when he had his arms full and it slipped his mind, he was too busy focusing on not busting his ass and breaking his arms.

> _Hey I’m outside and I gotta leave soon. Dad needs me for somethin_
> 
> _Hellooooo_
> 
> _Please tell me you aren’t boning already_
> 
> _MICKEY_

Mickey rolls his eyes and attempts to smile, but the mention of Terry has his stomach in knots. It easy to feel like they’re in their own safe little bubble, like they’re far away from the bastard. But nope—he’s still around. The thought always shakes him to his core.

Terry hasn’t really bothered him since he came out all those years ago at the Alibi; guess he figures there’s nothing he can do about him without getting sent back to the joint. He learned _that_ the hard way, fucker was only out for a few hours before he got tossed right back inside. Still, Mickey always feels that quick second of dread when he sees someone who looks similar out in public. He so desperately wishes he could feel the same amount of secure he did after he came out, when he knew that son of a bitch was behind bars and couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t touch _Ian._

> _hey fuck off, we’re not boning yet dickweed. be there in a second_

“Yup, his dumbass is outside.”

Ian groans, pulling his sticky shirt away from his chest a few times to cool himself down. “After we get this shit inside we need to shower.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hums out, biting down on his bottom lip. He’s only _half _joking. “I can think of a few other things we need to do.”

Catching his eye, Ian can’t help a fond look from spreading across his features after a few seconds of a deadpan look. “Calm down, your brother’s outside.”

“That joker can wait.”

Ian’s already halfway out the door when Mickey turns around. He sighs, very dramatically, and follows him out to the elevator.

When they get down to the lobby, Mickey can see Iggy leaning against the window near the front entrance, cigarette hung loosely in his mouth. The stuff he brought over is covered with a ratty old sheet in the bed of his beat-up truck.

“Jesus,” Mickey says as soon as he exits the building, playfully pushing at his brother’s shoulder. “Couldn’t have secured our shit better? Anything fly off on the highway, fuck up an innocent family in their mini van?”

Iggy rolls his eyes, grinning easily as he throws his cigarette to the ground. “Did the best I could, asshole. No one helped me for shit.” His attention turns to Ian as he joins them outside. “’Ey, man. Been a long time.”

“Yeah, it has,” Ian agrees. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold his hand out for a shake or go in for an awkward hug, so he settles with putting his arm around Mickey’s shoulder to occupy himself. “Hey, thanks for doing this, by the way.”

Before Iggy can respond, Mickey cuts in quickly. The anxiety is gnawing away at him, the thought of Terry knowing where they are. “You, uh, tell pops where you were going?”

Iggy looks offended for a split second but manages to get over it pretty quickly, scuffing his boots against the concrete. “Nah, Mick. Said I was selling this shit for extra cash. He seemed to believe it, and plus he was high as _fuck_ anyway. Don’t think he’ll even remember seeing me today.”

“Okay,” Mickey breathes out, leaning into Ian’s touch as the tension slowly drains from his shoulders. Ian feels solid against his back; he anchors him into place. “Okay. Just—don’t say anything. Yeah?”

“You think I’d _tell_ him?”

“No, Iggy, I don’t. Just—” his voice breaks and he abruptly stops talking, a wave of embarrassment flooding over him. Ian, of course, notices and trails his hand down from his shoulder to cover Mickey’s bare forearm, rubbing soothing shapes into his skin with his fingertips. It works like a charm. Mickey feels like he can breathe again after a few seconds of focusing on the sensation. “You know how it is, Igs. Don’t want him to know where we are.”

“Hey, I know. But man, I’d never do that shit to you. Gotta know that by now.”

Mickey wants to scoff and ask: if he’s on Mickey’s side, then why is he still doing shit for the guy, even after everything he’s seen him do from their childhood to now. But he knows Iggy’s just doing this shit to survive. He needs money, needs to support whatever new girlfriend he has. Mickey gets it. He’s heard Iggy talk shit about Terry more than enough times, knows that if it came down to it, he’d pop the bastard right in the head for him.

Ian squeezes Mickey’s arm and speaks up for him, changes the subject before it turns into a sob fest. “Hey, we should get this shit inside. You gotta get going soon, right?”

“Yeah. C’mon, then.”

It takes what seems like an entire day for them to set up all the shit they brought up after Iggy left. He ended up bringing a spare TV they didn’t use, his old bedframe and mattress, and his nightstand. He even put a bunch of his stuff that Sandy overlooked into a garbage bag.

The TV is set on the floor in front of the couch since they don’t have stand for it yet, and they managed to completely set up their bed and put a bunch of their clothes away in their closet.

“Fuck sake,” Mickey groans, throwing himself down on the cool sheets on their mattress. He’s sweaty and tired and all he wants to do is sleep for twelve hours straight. “We’re never moving again. Hope you’re ready to spend your retirement years here, Gallagher.”

Ian laughs from where he’s hanging up one of his plaid shirts. “Can you imagine if Vera hadn’t turned on the AC before we came? Think I would’ve died doing this shit with how humid it is.”

Mickey hums softly in agreement, then pats the space beside him loudly. “Ay, enough of that. Come here. We can hang up the rest of our clothes later.”

“You trying to get me in bed, Milkovich?”

When Ian turns around after throwing one of his shirts to the floor, Mickey flashes him a wide grin and a raise of his eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“You’re _sick_,” Ian stage whispers, but he’s crossing the room and settling in beside him without any further complaints. He’s warm, skin red and flushed. Mickey can’t help but touch him.

He can’t believe there was a point in time where he thought he wouldn’t have this. He thought he’d be in Mexico forever, running drugs, drinking tequila and getting sunburned all by himself. He reaches out and touches Ian’s face, thinks about the day where he had to drive across the border all alone. He had looked at Ian in the rearview mirror for as long as he could, until he couldn’t see him anymore. Clearing the lump forming in his throat, Mickey says, “Hey. We crossed it.”

Ian’s quiet for a moment, his eyebrow quirked up in thought. “Hmm? Crossed what?”

Mickey moves his hand so he’s touching the freckles scattered high on Ian’s cheekbones. He rubs the pad of his thumb against them, humming quietly under his breath. “The finish line.”

Eyes softening, Ian leans down to press a chaste kiss to Mickey’s lips. When he leans back, Mickey can see every color in his eyes, all the specks of golden yellow and blue hidden in green. His smile fades slightly, his brow raising slowly. “So…wanna go break in our new shower?”

“Absolutely.”

They clean the day from themselves in record time.

Once Ian finishes gently scratching through Mickey’s scalp, clearing all the coconut conditioner, he spins him around so fast that Mickey’s feet nearly give out from underneath him. Ian, like always, seems to be one step ahead. His soapy hands reach out to grab at Mickey’s hips, so he won’t lose his balance and slip, break his fucking skull on the porcelain base. And, honestly, what a way to go. Move into your apartment with the love of your life and immediately crack your goddamn head in the shower.

“Jesus,” Mickey huffs out a laugh, bracing his hands on Ian’s chest, “The fuck’s up with you?”

Ian’s gaze is set on Mickey’s mouth when he answers, “Thinkin’ about what you said. How we can be as loud as we want.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Mickey slowly lowers his hands until he can feel Ian’s cock, already half hard. Fuck, he can’t even remember the last time they didn’t have to worry about someone walking in on them. He’s so used to being quick and quiet, looking over his shoulder at the smallest of noises. His stomach flips in excitement. “That right?”

Ian exhales shakily when Mickey starts stroking him to full hardness, and after hesitantly taking his hands from Mickey’s hips, he reaches behind him to turn the water off. The warm spray comes to a halt, leaving small rivulets to slowly slide down Mickey’s back, goosebumps rising on his skin in their wake.

Mickey tightens his grip a little, smirks to himself when it draws a grunt from deep within Ian’s chest. “Yeah? That all it takes for you now?”

“Shut up,” Ian laughs breathlessly. He pulls the shower curtain to the side and nods at the open bathroom door. “You wanna get to bed or continue being an asshole?”

Snorting, Mickey releases his grip on Ian’s cock and raises his eyebrows up at him. “Don’t know. Kinda like riling you up. Your ears get all pink, you know, and—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian interrupts, then after an intense, _real_ serious look, takes Mickey by the hips and lifts him up.

Mickey will deny this if Ian ever brings it up; he absolutely does _not _squeak in surprise when his feet leave the wet base of the shower in a motion so quick it feels like he suddenly started to fly. His hands immediately grab onto whatever body part is in his immediate reach, his hands filling up with the broad muscles of Ian’s freckled shoulders. If Ian drops him he’s going to kick his _ass_. He’ll dump him and burn down this entire apartment building. “The _fuck_, Gallagher?”

Ian doesn’t say anything, too busy focusing on getting them out of the shower without giving either of them a concussion. He’s laughing, though, Mickey can feel the way his body is shaking lightly underneath him. Asshole.

Thankfully, Ian gets them to the bed without any fractured skulls. Mickey’s thrown down like a fucking rag doll, bouncing on the mattress a few times before his body settles. Ian’s looking down at him like he’s fucking _hungry _for it, eyes dark and scanning over his body like he’s never seen Mickey naked before. “For fuck—will you get down here? _Please_? And stop looking at me like that, you’re gonna give me a—”

Then Ian’s on him, their lips colliding messily, all teeth and tongues and half broken moans. Mickey’s cock is _throbbing_, and he’s about to whine, reach between them to touch himself, but then Ian’s body is flush against his and there’s the sweetest amount of friction from Ian’s belly that makes Mickey gasp and rut against him a little harder.

Ian moves away from Mickey’s mouth to bite at Mickey’s throat, drawing out these deep grunts from Mickey’s chest that would make him flush and bite his lips until blood is drawn if they were anywhere else and he was scared someone would hear, but they’re _alone, _and no one’s around the corner, it’s just them and the way Ian’s teeth are scraping over Mickey’s pulse point the way he knows Mickey likes. The noises that are coming from Mickey’s mouth are involuntary, he couldn’t stop them now if he tried, and Ian fucking loves that, he can tell by the way his tongue darts out by his jaw, the way he sucks _hard _until Mickey’s sure there’ll be a bruise.

“Hey, hey, can’t go to work with a hickey like that—”

Ian stops, pressing a kiss to his throat instead. He pulls away, enough to see his work, and snuffles lightly against Mickey’s jaw. “Oops.”

Mickey would hit his shoulder and tell him what an asshole he is, but he can’t really think straight with how fucking _hard _he is. He puts his hands in Ian’s hair and _yanks_, so that Ian’s forced to turn the other way, their mouths meeting again. This kiss is hungrier than the first—grunts and teeth and Ian’s sucking on Mickey’s lip so hard it makes his head spin. Mickey reaches down and takes Ian’s cock again, impossibly hard and leaking at the tip, can feel his hand slick up with it. God, he just wants it, he wants it so much, wants to push Ian down and ride him until his thighs are burning in protest—

“Spread your legs,” Ian’s saying, and Mickey can barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. “C’mon, c’mon, _Mick_,”

Mickey arches his back and lets his legs fall open, hissing in pleasure when their cocks slide together at the sudden change in position. When he reaches down, wanting to take them both in his grip, Ian slaps his hand away and leans over him, opens the drawer to his nightstand and scrambles around until he finds what he’s looking for.

The sound of the lube uncapping is enough to give Mickey goosebumps. Then Ian’s moving down Mickey’s legs, pressing kisses to his thighs and his tummy, to his hips, to that scar Mickey got when he was fourteen and Iggy accidentally hit him with a fucking dart. He kind of wants to close his eyes, feels kind of embarrassed at the attention and how sweet and soft Ian’s kissing him, but he makes himself keep his eyes open, gaze locked on Ian and the way he’s looking up at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. Like it’s a fucking _honor _to be kissing Mickey’s scar ridden skin. God, Mickey loves him so fucking much. Loves the way he can make him feel like he’s _worth_ something.

When Ian presses the first finger in, Mickey groans, hips stuttering around without him really having anything to do about it, trying to get it in deeper, deeper, deeper. Then it’s another, and _another_, and Mickey’s bucking around wildly, wanting it so fucking badly that he can’t seem to stop the quick, involuntarily convulsions. “God, _fuck_,”

“You want another, or do you want me?”

Mickey swallows, hand twitching near his hard cock. “Just—just gimme another real quick, want to feel that, then I want you.”

Ian presses another kiss into the soft skin of Mickey’s inner thigh, then readjusts his fingers until his pinky joins. It’s fucking—it’s _a lot_, there’s pain mixed with pleasure, but the pain ebbs away quickly until all it is, is fucking _good_, so good that Mickey doesn’t even realize he’s babbling until Ian straight up giggles, teeth digging into his hip. Fuck, he’s gonna have so many marks later. “Shuddup, asshole,” he whispers, mouth feeling impossibly dry. “Been a minute, you know how I get when I don’t get something in my ass for a few days. Real fuckin’ bitchy.”

Ian just hums against his skin, then suddenly he’s _empty_, and he’d be real embarrassed about the whine that leaves his mouth but he doesn’t give a shit at this point, he just wants Ian, wants anything he’ll give to him.

Mickey watches with hooded eyes as Ian slicks up his cock, watches as he moves forward on his knees and lines himself up. He could fucking _cry_ when Ian pushes in, it’s so much better than his fingers, the way it fills him up _completely _and leaves him breathless, makes his hands clench around Ian’s arms. Surely there’s gonna be little half-crescent shapes on his biceps later from how hard he’s digging his nails into him. That’s what he gets for that fucking hickey.

When Ian’s flush against him, taking a moment to let Mickey adjust to being full, he leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, sweet and soft. “I fucking love you,” he breathes out, angles his face so he can press another kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his ear. “You know that?”

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Mickey says. Because he does. He knows Ian loves him, can see it in his eyes _right now_, filled up with that stupid fucking fond look. He reaches up and touches Ian’s chest, right above his heart. He can feel how wild his heart is going, a billion beats a minute. “I love you.”

Then Ian’s starting up a rhythm so sweet that it knocks the breath out of Mickey. It’s slow, so different from a minute ago when they were clashing teeth and banging foreheads. So slow, that Mickey feels his heart hammering in his throat because of how fucking intimate it is. Ian’s looking down at him like he’s the sun,—which is unfair because God knows _Ian_ is the sun, with his fiery hair and dusted freckles—like he can’t quite believe they’re here. And Mickey understands, because it’s fucking insane. All of it. Their whole story, the shit they’ve been put through, the fact they’re here, together, connected, _now_.

It’s overwhelming. Mickey lets out a shaky breath, moves his hand to Ian’s freckly shoulder to let his fingers roam against the warm skin. “Touch me—_fuck_—Ian, please fuckin’ touch me.”

So Ian does. He reaches down and takes Mickey’s cock, strokes gently but has a grip that feels so good that Mickey feels his eyes roll back a little. He lets his eyes flutter closed, focusing on the way he feels Ian all over. He feels him deep inside, feels him on his skin, under his skin, _everywhere_. It kinda feels like Ian is part of him at this point, burrowed into him like he’s his fucking home.

“Look at me,” Ian’s saying, and Mickey opens his eyes again to see that Ian’s cheeks are flushed, his pupils are blown and his freckles are standing out against the bright blush spread across his cheekbones. He’s so fucking beautiful that it _hurts_, so Mickey reaches out to squeeze at Ian’s hips and dig his fingernails in just so he can see the way Ian’s mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey groans when Ian’s pace starts to quicken, and when he moves his body to sit up a little he nearly comes right then and there from the way Ian hits his prostate head on. “Oh fuck, keep doing that,”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian breathes out distractedly, too busy looking down between them to make sure he’s making Mickey feel good, thumbs at the head of Mickey’s cock in time with the snap of his hips. “_Fuck_.”

“Yeah, fuck is right,” Mickey laughs out, then drops his head against the pillow and wraps his legs tightly around Ian’s waist. His hands start to roam—Ian’s arms, his chest, his flushed throat, anywhere he can reach. “Go a little harder.”

And well—Ian listens to that, too. Mickey gasps and bares his throat, locking his ankles together so his legs won’t fall back against the mattress. Ian’s fucking into him good and hard, just the way he likes it, and somewhere in-between Ian mumbling about how good he looks Mickey starts to lose control of himself, moans and grunts and whimpers alike spilling out of him without him even noticing.

There’s a particularly hard thrust that hits him just right and Ian’s twisting his wrist with it and then Mickey’s coming—coming so hard that he can see stars behind his shut eyes, all those little shapes and colors, like fireworks. His whole body is tensed up and he can feel Ian peppering kisses along his collarbone, on his tattoo, and he must be clenching super fucking hard because then Ian’s gasping out, hips stuttering into an erratic rhythm before he’s driving into him _deep_. Mickey shivers and squeezes Ian’s bicep, feels the come deep inside of him that’s gonna be a pain in the fucking ass later, pun intended, and grunts loudly when Ian slumps against him lazily.

“The _fuck _off me, man, you’re heavy,” Mickey complains, shouldering him hard enough that he falls down beside him. He’s even more fucking bone tired all of a sudden, so exhausted with the whole day, but he can feel come on his stomach and inside of him and _fuck_, they just fucking showered. What an asshole, he doesn’t want to move again.

Ian finally gets his breath back after a minute or two, then laughs when he hooks his chin onto Mickey’s shoulder. “Fuck. That was good.”

Mickey’s stomach growls. It makes him laugh, _hard_, because he’s so fucking tired and delirious and he just got his brains fucked out, okay, _sue him _that he’s a little bit giggly. “Wait. Holy fuck. _Ian_.”

“What?”

“We forgot food.”

Ian makes a noise, like he’s thinking about it, then he snorts after a second. “Hold on.”

Mickey watches as Ian walks out and heads into the living room, ass on full display. Not to mention the stupid boob tattoo. Oh well, he can ignore it right now. He’s too fucked out to make a snarky comment.

When Ian comes back it’s with a towel and a little plastic bag. Mickey raises his eyebrows at it, and before he can ask what it is, Ian pours the contents out onto the bed. It’s about ten stupid Kind bars, a mixture of those sea salt caramel ones Mickey likes and Ian’s dark chocolate. “See? Always handy. Never talk shit about my purchases again.”

Mickey grumbles but eats half of them anyway.

The next day is more relaxed.

They just organize most of their stuff and it actually looks pretty damn good. Ian’s side of the closet is filled up way more, but that was to be expected. The dude has, like, thirty Gay Jesus shirts. Mickey moves the nightstand Iggy brought to his side of the bed, opens the drawer and has a field day looking at the stupid shit he left in there. He hasn’t seen the contents in years and full on cackles when he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper that he so clearly remembers drawing when he was thirteen and pissed off that of all the people in the world, _he _had to be gay. The doodle says “fuck love” surrounded by dicks and whatever else his weird ass conjured up.

Ian happens to be walking by when he’s laughing at it, and he joins in once he sees what’s in his hands. “No fucking way you still have that. I fucking _stared_ at that when we fucked the first time, thought maybe I’d compliment you on your art skills afterwards, but I didn’t want you to stab me.”

Their kitchen is completely fixed up, pots and pans in the bottom cabinet near the stove. All their cheap forks, knives, and spoons fit nicely in the drawer next to the sink. They put cups away, plates, some expensive looking China that Mickey remembers his mom hiding away, jokingly threatening to send him and his brothers to military school if they ever thought about breaking any of them. He thinks they’re from Ukraine, maybe from his grandmother. He wouldn’t know, he never asked. But his mom had loved them, never even used them even though that’s a bit dumb, it’s what they’re _for_. For using. But they didn’t have nice things in the house, so maybe she didn’t want to set it out and get them shattered.

Monday is even better. They get ready for work together since their shifts lined up, and it’s so nice being able to sleep in just a _little _bit since they’re so close to their jobs. When they’re ready and need to head out, they share a sweet little kiss in front of their building and when they walk their separate ways, Mickey catches Ian looking back at him when he sneaks a glance.

They both laugh, Ian’s ears turning a little red at being caught, and Mickey faces back the other way. “Stop lookin’ at me, Gallagher.” he calls over his shoulder, and it’s so worth it to hear Ian’s loud cackle down the street.

Damn, it hasn’t even been a minute and he can’t wait to come back _home_.

* * *

The mall closes down two hours early one day because of some teenagers causing a fucking brawl near Macy’s. He’s definitely not complaining about it even _if_ the alarm scared the fucking shit out of him; his boss forgot to mention that sometimes this shit happens, and the alarm sounds like it’s straight out of a fucking doomsday movie. He was so close to sending Ian a, _I’m about to die, love you _text before Nelson started dancing in celebration near the bell bottoms and Alondra yelled out a, “Fuck yes! Early day!”

So, Mickey changes out of his stupid lilac polo and throws his headset in his locker, and happily makes his way out of the double doors at the end of the food court. He honestly might start paying some shithead kids to incite riots every other day if it means he gets to walk down to Frenchie’s and see Ian when he’d otherwise be staring down old ladies and puffing up his chest so he can intimidate some soccer mom eyeing some ugly blouses. They’re fuckin’ rich, he doesn’t know why they need to think about stealing shit. 

He _would _have walked back home, caught up on his sleep, but they still don’t have cable and it’d be so quiet and lonely without Ian. He’d much rather eat a greasy burger and look at Ian in his cute uniform he gets embarrassed about.

It’s a fucking _sight _when he walks in, bell jingling above him, because Ian’s leaning against the counter watching the customers with a soft smile. Their eyes lock after the door shuts loudly behind him, and Mickey snorts out a laugh when Ian’s entire face lights up, watches stupidly fond as Ian whispers something to the girl he thinks might be the host, menus in her hands and curly black hair tied up in a bun.

She ends up leading him to a booth that Ian’s slowly making his way to, shit eating grin on his face. It shouldn’t make Mickey’s stomach flip, shouldn’t make him get fucking _butterflies_, but it does. 

“Hi, I’m Ian. I’ll be serving you today. You wanna get started with a drink?” He asks, lips turned up into a blinding smile. His eyes are sparkling, like this is just the best thing that could happen to him today.

Mickey can’t help but laugh his ass off at the fake cheery tone of Ian’s voice. He sounds like he should be on some stupid ass commercial on TV, maybe one of those infomercials trying to sell you some kind of fucking magic sponge. “Yeah, okay, smiley. I’ll take a coke.”

Ian winks. “Good choice. Be right back.”

Mickey shakes his head, looking down at the menu to scan over the specials highlighted in red. Ian’s such an idiot. Like, a real life, unbelievable _idiot_. He loves him so much it’s stupid.

Ian comes over in record time with his drink, setting down a straw by his silverware. “Do you need more time or are you ready to go, sir?”

Jesus. Mickey bites back a smile and raises his eyebrows up at him. “I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries, you big fucking creeper. You gonna stare at me while I eat, too?”

Snorting, Ian puts his hands on his hips and pretends to think it over for a moment. “Oh, yeah. I absolutely was planning to, would that be an issue?”

Rolling his eyes and pointedly ignoring him, Mickey holds out the menu so Ian can take it. “You having a slow day?”

“Yeah, actually,” Ian mutters, cutting the fake voice and act and nodding back to the empty booths near the counter. “Kinda happy about it. Someone wore me out last night.”

“Oh, really? Who?”

Ian smacks him in the shoulder with the menu, eyes crinkling with his smile. “I don’t know. Has the same name as a cartoon mouse, I think.” he laughs, like his joke was the funniest thing in the world, and Mickey would roll his eyes and say something sarcastic about how much of a comedian he is, ask how much are the tickets to his world tour are, but Ian looks so cute in his black shirt and slacks that it dies in his throat. “Hey, I’ll take my break when you get your food, okay? We can eat together?”

“Alright, tough guy. Go do your job. Your tip’s going down by the second.”

Mickey sips at his coke and gets his phone out when Ian disappears to give his order to the cook. He’s been mildly (_yes, _mildly) addicted to some stupid game that was advertised to him on the side of some webpage. It’s a complete waste of time and it has more ads than he thinks is even legal, but it’s fun to make words from the scrambled letters. He always feels a little proud of himself when he puts a long word together. Fuck you, public school. He’s plenty smart.

It’s about ten minutes before Ian comes back, balancing two plates in his hands. Mickey wants to roll his eyes when he sees that Ian has a salad with grilled chicken, but ultimately decides against it. Yeah, maybe he _should _start eating better, but he doesn’t want Ian to go off on some tangent about how much he would feel better if he just _tried _to have a salad for lunch one day. Fuck that. He needs his burger.

“Hiya, handsome.”

Mickey throws a fry at him. “Why you being so sappy for?”

“Can’t a guy be happy to see his boyfriend? And what the hell are you doing here, by the way?”

Mickey takes his time chewing his bite of the burger before answering Ian’s question. “Mall closed early, some dumbass kids causing a ruckus by fuckin’ Macy’s of all places. Couldn’t they have incited a riot near Hot Topic? Make it a little fun?”

Ian laughs around his mouthful of salad, pulling his cup of water closer to take a sip. “It’s the middle of a school day. They really skipped just to fuck around at the mall and get kicked out?”

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t give a shit what they did. Got me out of work early, didn’t it?”

“Guess so. But I’m actually really happy to see you,” Ian says casually, like it doesn’t make Mickey’s heart drop out of his ass. “Work today is so slow, thought I’d die of boredom before I could get home to you.”

“Mm, saved your day, didn’t I?”

“’Course you did. Hey, you going home after you finish eating?”

Mickey taps on his phone screen and makes a noise at the time once it lights up at his touch. “Nah, I’ll just wait for you, right? You only have an hour left?”

“Aw, look at you. Knowing my schedule and shit.” This time, when Mickey throws a fry at him, Ian happily eats it. “Wanna take some food home so we don’t have to make anything?”

“Hell yeah. What you thinking?”

“We just got some new chocolate chip waffles. There’s also a fuck ton of leftover chicken tenders because someone ordered a platter for a party and cancelled at the last minute.”

“Chicken and waffles? You trying to make me fall in love with you, Red?”

Ian scoffs, pushing his plate forward. “Don’t really need to try.”

And—really…that’s fair enough.

Ian gets back to work after a few more minutes of eating and catching up. Mickey tells him about some lady with a shitty haircut who almost stole four _whole _pairs of jeans by shoving them under her shirt and Ian rolls his eyes while recalling a drunk man who showed up before noon and reminded him so much of Frank he needed to sit out in the break room for a second.

Mickey settles back in the booth and goes through his emails. Nothing important, mostly spam and deals from stores he doesn’t remember signing up for. There _is_ a name he recognizes, though, almost laughs when he sees the username larry.seaver in his inbox. When he opens it, there’s a picture: a childlike doodle of the sun, with “life is tough, but so are you!” in neat blocked handwriting underneath.

For a quick second he wants to tell Larry to fuck off. It feels like he’s being babied or pitied, and, really, he doesn’t really know which one is worse. But then, he’s never had a P.O. that gave a fuck about him like this. He figured this joker would be nice for the first few meetings and then turn into the worst asshole he’s ever known, like all the rest had done. Hell, his last P.O. was nice _just_ for the first meeting, then she turned into a raging bitch and threatened to mess with the results of his urine test if he didn’t run some drugs for her.

Larry’s a nice enough dude, though, with his dumb khaki pants and blazers. He drove him to Ian’s after his stupid ass jumped out of a moving bus, even offered to take him to the clinic to patch up his face. He’s nice and doesn’t expect anything in return—which is so different than what Mickey knows, what he’s experienced from people throughout his life.

Mickey looks up from his phone and over at Ian, watches the way he smiles brightly at an old woman babbling about her day and figures he can be a little nice today. He never even properly thanked him for the whole apartment thing, so he hits the reply button before he can really overthink it.

> _hey, thanks larry. for both the nice email and the way you helped us with our apartment. and for not being an asshole like my other parole officers. have a good one_
> 
> _Mickey_

He finishes hitting send right when Ian walks back over, sliding a slice of chocolate pie in front of him. “On the house, hot stuff.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey mumbles, but smiles the entire time it takes for him to finish the slice.

Ian’s shift wraps up pretty quickly. It continues to be a surprisingly slow evening, usually there’s a long line out the door when he walks by after work. Something about an authentic 50s aesthetic, a jukebox, and the fact they’ve been featured on some stupid food network TV show makes all these yuppie idiots foam at the mouth and wait an absurd amount of time for a basic burger and fries. Oh well—at least they tip Ian well.

He gets a notification that his phone battery is at 20% when Ian finally walks up to the booth and nods towards the front door, a tired smile on his face.

It’s a little sticky outside, but the worst of the heat is gone with the sun starting to set. The sky is a gorgeous mess of pinks and purples and oranges, and it makes Ian’s hair look like flames. “Ay. You tired?”

Ian swings the plastic bag between them and hums thoughtfully. “Eh, kinda. Just wanna relax and watch a movie when we get home, you think that beat up DVD player we put in that junk drawer still works? Found a bunch of random movies this morning when I was looking for my apron.”

“Probably? I think we only used it a few times. Don’t know how the fuck to set it up, though. Mandy did it.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, listening to the cars pass by. There’s the comforting noise of trains passing by, blowing their horns and chugging along the tracks. A siren in the distance, a distinct bass thumping in someone’s car. Mickey’s never felt so comfortable in public, walking side by side with his love. He knocks the back of his hand against Ian’s, and it makes him smile how quickly Ian moves the plastic bag to his other hand so he can reach out and take Mickey’s.

The smile takes over his face. It’s so dumb how much he likes to hold hands. It makes him feel like a little middle schooler, blushing and giggling because their crush likes them back and holds their hand in science class.

(It might also have something to do with how fucking giant Ian’s hands are, how secure he feels when Ian holds him.)

He can only imagine what Terry would do if he were to see his gay ass son walking back to the apartment he shares with his gay ass boyfriend, holding his hand for all of Chicago to see. Hopefully have a fucking heart attack. Fuck him. Mickey squeezes Ian’s hand once to ground himself, because fuck if he’s going to be scared of his dad after all this time. _Fuck him_. He survived all the shit his prick of a father put him through and he’s going to be proud.

It’s hard not to be proud when he’s got Ian by his side, holding his hand and sneaking smiles at him every couple of minutes.

When they get to their building, Mickey almost misses it.

It’s darker now and the thing is black as night, hiding behind a trash can lined up near a window. But it moves a little and makes a small sound, and then Ian’s dropping Mickey’s hand to crouch down near the bin. “Aw, Mick. It’s a little—hey, buddy. Are you lost?

A little _what_? But before he can ask, the thing responds to Ian’s voice, cautiously walking out from behind the trash can. It’s a big ass black cat, a scrawny little thing that looks like it’s been scavenging for scraps for weeks.

“It doesn’t have a collar, Mick. Should we—should we give it a waffle?”

“The waffle’s got chocolate in them, genius. Doesn’t that fuck up animals?”

Ian hums. “Yeah, I think you might be right. Maybe a chicken tender?”

Mickey scoffs at the idea of giving away his food, but his eyes soften when he looks back at the poor thing. It’s got pretty green eyes, pupils dilating as it curiously looks back and forth between the two of them. “You can give him one of _your _chicken tenders, man. I’ll be inside.”

Mickey honestly forgets about the cat. It was a few seconds of his time, lost in his subconscious after a few days.

That is, until he walks home from work one day and it’s lounging on the front steps leading to the entrance, licking lazily at its paw.

The little fucker is cute. He can’t lie. Those big green eyes are looking at him again, and Christ, isn’t that just _it_. Melting over green eyes. Sounds real fuckin’ familiar.

He sighs and looks around, scopes out if anyone is around. When he’s satisfied and confident he’s alone, he slowly sinks down and sits beside it. “Hey, bud.”

The cat looks up at him and sets its paw down on the concrete, pupils dilating. It’s real fucking creepy, honestly, but it’s kinda cool at the same time. It lets out a tiny meow and gets up so fast it scares the _shit_ out of him. He jerks back, ready to make a quick escape, but the thing doesn’t pounce or run off or bite off a big chunk of his arm. It leans over and headbutts his outstretched hand, and Mickey lets out a startled breath of a laugh. “Oh, you want pets, huh?”

The cat meows. Really fucking responds to him, like it’s some sort of cat Einstein.

“Alright, okay. Little asshole.” Mickey scratches by its ears and snorts to himself when it starts to purr. Shit. It’s _really _fucking cute. After a few moments of scratching and nonchalantly looking over the thing’s body to scope out if it’s visibly injured, it meows, licks at his thumb with its weird fucking sandpaper tongue, and saunters off.

Mickey shakes his head, watching it walk down the street with a soft smile on his face. God dammit.

And, well, if Mickey texts Vera and asks about the pet policy, that’s just his little secret.

> (_Hey, Mickey. Pets are definitely allowed. You guys thinking of adding to the fam?_

Mickey doesn’t respond. Because, hell, he might not see the thing again.)

Mickey sees the thing again.

Ian had met up with him at the mall and walked home with him, and he tries really hard to ignore the way he feels _excited _when he sees a little black blob near their building’s entrance doors.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaims anyway, blowing his cover, and drops Ian’s hand to crouch down beside it. “Hey, asshole. You’re back.”

Ian’s got an eyebrow raised with Mickey looks back at him. “Did I—did I miss something? I definitely missed something.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t _huh _me. Last time you didn’t give a shit about it. I gave it some of my chicken.”

“So?”

Ian just hums, face splitting into an amused grin. His gaze moves to the cat, so Mickey looks back down at the cute little fucker, too. “Does Mickey like you, buddy? Does Mickey have a new little friend?”

Mickey snorts in embarrassment but reaches out to scratch between the cat’s ears anyway. “Fuck off, weirdo. How the fuck can an animal be my friend, anyway?”

The cat stands up, headbutts him in the hand again. Mickey’s heart feels a little full, like the big ‘ol fucking softie he’s somehow become. “Hey, kitty.”

“Holy shit. He _likes_ you so much?”

Mickey laughs loudly, quieting down when he sees the cat flinch at the sudden noise. “Don’t act so surprised, dickhead. I’m quite the fuckin’ catch.”

Ian laughs along with him, doesn’t bother denying it. “You are.”

It’s quiet for a moment, Mickey just scratching the little thing on the head, until Ian speaks up again. “You thinking about keeping it or something?”

Mickey makes a surprised noise, doesn’t mention texting Vera about the whole pet policy thing. “I don’t know, man. We’d have to take it to the vet, don’t want it giving us some weird fucking disease. And that shit’s expensive.”

Ian’s eyes are bright when Mickey looks up at him. “You’ve really been thinking about it?”

Mickey feels his face heat up a little bit. He doesn’t know why he should be _embarrassed_, it’s just a cat. He’s never had a pet before, and it _would_ be fun to experience that kind of thing, decorating a food bowl and designing a collar, naming the little shit. He’s allowed to _want _things, shouldn’t be embarrassed about it, but it’s hard to unlearn the bullshit Terry put in his head. “Kinda. It loved on me a week ago and got me all attached, the evil little bastard.”

“That was its master plan,” Ian decides, “Sucked you in, now it’s gonna slit our throats in the middle of the night and steal all our food.”

Snorting, Mickey lowers his voice and rubs beneath its chin. “You gonna do that? Kick our asses and steal our shit?”

The cat looks up at him, green eyes wide. _Meow_.

Ian laughs at that, running his hands through Mickey’s hair. “’Least he’s honest.”

They take it to the vet a few blocks away when they see it the next day. It’s just waiting for them by the front, even meows when it sees them. So, of course, Ian’s convinced it’s meant to be. (Mickey’s convinced too. He basically already named the thing, in his head.)

Turns out it’s a girl, she’s healthy albeit a tad underweight, and she gets all of her shots updated. She doesn’t have a microchip, and the vet guesses she either ran away after being owned or was straight up abandoned, because she’s already spayed. There’s also a possibility that she was in a shelter, or part of some free spay and neutering program for strays. He gives Mickey so much information at once that he kinda feels like a dumbass trying to keep up with him, but Ian’s paying attention too, so if he misses something he’ll just ask him about it later.

“So. You’re keeping her?”

Mickey looks over at Ian, who’s looking back and smiling at him, nodding slightly to encourage him to answer. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Do you want to register her today, then? Get her microchipped?”

“That expensive?”

The vet hums thoughtfully, pushing away his blonde hair from his forehead. “We could get you set up with pet insurance today. It’s around twenty bucks a month. Whatever you spend today would get refunded if you submit a claim online.”

Mickey looks over at Ian again, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. His face is soft, eyes warm, and he nods at Mickey like he’s saying: _I’m with you, whatever you decide. _

“Yeah, okay. We’ll do all of that.”

Smiling, the vet walks over to the big filing cabinet and starts to pick out a few specific packets. “You got a name for her yet?”

Mickey speaks without thinking, without letting his brain catch up. “Stevie.”

Ian lets out a startled laugh. “What? Stevie?”

“Hell yeah, man. _Stevie Nicks_?”

They get her microchipped, registered in the vet’s database, and get some coupons for the pet store down the block. Mickey walks in, holding her in his arms like she’s some kind of real human baby. This cat owns his ass, and he’s known her for, like, twenty minutes in total.

He picks out a litter box, food bowls, tiny toys and a bag of food, just enough to start out with. Ian carries the bags when they walk home while Mickey continues to hold Stevie in his arms. She’s really well behaved, just chilling and purring and looking around like she’s finally appreciating the world around her.

When Mickey looks down at her, she’s looking up at him with droopy eyes, obviously feeling sleepy from the long day she had. Mickey nuzzles his face to hers, and Ian breaks the moment by exclaiming,

“God, you are _so_ fucking cute. The both of you.”

Mickey looks at Ian with a big grin on his face, can feel Stevie move her head to look at Ian, too.

“Jesus Christ. The two of you.”

“Yeah, I know. We’re cute as fuck. Hey—I never had a pet before, this is the coolest shit that’s ever happened to me. _Look, _she’s about to fall asleep on me.” Mickey babbles, nuzzling his face to hers again. Her whiskers tickle his jaw and her deep purring tickles his chest.

Ian claps his hands together like he’s had the biggest lightbulb moment of all time. “Holy fuck. I never realized it, but…you’re part cat.”

“What?”

“You do the same thing.”

“_What _thing?”

“The little nuzzle!”

Mickey scoffs, scratches Stevie between the ears and ignores the way he can feel his cheeks warm up. “I don’t fucking _nuzzle_.”

“Mickey. You _so _nuzzle! You did it just this morning.”

“Alright, well so what if I do? I love you. Fuck off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so this is the first time i’ve written smut in a very VERY long time so don’t @ me okay! okay  
hint for the next chapter since i left you guys waiting for so long: 💍


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